


ironing out the kinks (tma kinktober 2020)

by Here_There_Be_Kinks



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Body Worship, Bondage, Boys in Skirts, Breathplay, Canon Asexual Character, Choking, Cockwarming, Communication, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dacryphilia, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Food Kink, Foreplay, Formalwear, Frottage, Human Furniture, Insecurity, Kink Negotiation, Kinktober, Light Bondage, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Omorashi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Scars, Sensory Deprivation, Shibari, Shower Sex, Somnophilia, Stand Alone Chapters, Tenderness, Threesome - M/M/M, Trust, Voyeurism, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26771188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Here_There_Be_Kinks/pseuds/Here_There_Be_Kinks
Summary: Day 31: Free day (aftercare)Tim kisses his hair and gently pulls away. “I’ll make some tea. And run you a bath. You stay put.”His instincts want to tell Tim it isn’t necessary. But he’s still feeling mildly groggy, and the bath sounds like heaven after the aches and pains and sweat. And they both know it isn’t strictly necessary, but that isn’t the point, or even the concern.Stand alone, independent chapters with stand alone relationships (unless otherwise stated, of course :3)
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/The Spiral, Jonathan Sims/Elias Bouchard, Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 158
Kudos: 329





	1. Jon/Martin - omorashi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Omorashi** ~~| Knife play | Body swap~~

“You’re doing lovely, Jon.”

It’s a depraved thing, he knows, to take all the tension from the job and chase it away with ample distractions and too many cups of tea, to hold on until his bladder aches and to still put it off. It’s something he’d learned about in high school, university, he can’t remember where; he’d never been much of a person to stop what he’s doing for trivial needs and he’s been holding it as long as he can remember now. But it had been around those years– late teens, early twenties– he’d realized it as a means of sexual gratification, a thing that, er, got the motor running in him, so to speak, like nothing else could. Not all the time sexual, of course not, but sometimes… sometimes.

Of course, getting hard over holding your piss, the pleasure of waiting until the ache turned real, heavy and stretched low in your gut, and the release that came with rushing to the bathroom, frantic and jittery, _wasn’t_ something to talk about in polite society.

He’d trembled through telling Martin; one day, waiting, and waiting, until Martin had gently reminded him to take care of himself. Like Jon had just forgotten, instead of done it on purpose. And then he’d had to tell him, done with secrets and needing to share, admitting “I like it” softly under his breath. And…

And here they were. Jon, hands clenched on his knees on the couch and Martin by his side. Lovely Martin, contemplative, supportive, enthusiastic. And Jon had felt stupid being so thrilled to share it, and still did, a bit, but it was hard to, with Martin praising him instead of shaming him, (Not that Martin would. Martin’s safe. He knows.) and encouraging him further on something that made him feel, well, _good._

Jon laughs, rubbing his thighs together. _“Am_ I?” he asks. He can’t keep still, anxious and fidgety and it’s undeniable, that heat in his core that’s wound up so tightly with the urge to run to the bathroom, how much he’s _enjoying_ this.

But Martin’s eyes are bright, and pupils dilated, just watching Jon squirm on the couch. He likes it, too. “Yeah. God, you’re… well, you know I love seeing you, uh, _unhinged._ And the squirming– God,” he repeats, and smooths his hand over the back of Jon’s. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It, ah–” Jon shifts again, cataloging. Gauging the sensation to put into words even though knows he properly can’t. “Full, uh, ha. Obviously.” He puffs out a breath, tries again. “I definitely… I definitely need to go. But it’s warm and tight and– and I can choose to go anytime, if I want. Uh. T–The control is… nice.” _And I suppose it makes me feel like I’m still human._ He doesn’t say it, although it’s true. There is something so very blissful in being in charge of his own humanity, no matter for however short a time. Yes, his body will break down and release will come of its own accord if he lets it go that far, but it isn’t… that isn’t what it’s about, for him. 

It’s just this, letting out a sharp breath at another wave of needs and wants, both warring against each other in his head and Jon grinds the heel of his hand against his thigh, gritting his teeth through the wave of pressure. “It feels like I could lose it,” he manages, unclenching his jaw.

“You wanna go?” Martin asks. Gentle, lovely Martin.

“Uh.” _No, no. Not yet. Please not yet._

“Okay,” Martin chirps, leaning down to kiss his cheek. Jon sags in relief– well, okay, no, not quite that, not yet. “You wanna cuddle, a bit, then? I mean, I can’t… you know, _help_ you hold, but I can hold _you.”_

“Y… Yes. Thank you, Martin,” he says, a little awkwardly. It involves scooting back into the cushions, and settling into the embrace of Martin’s arms. It hurts, but in that pleasure-painful way Jon can’t help but crave. He chases Martin’s warmth and the pressure building and building; he turns his face into Martin’s neck, and lets him hold him until he decides it’s time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: on the topic of Jon specifically, I write him as every facet of asexual depending on the fic, so some ficlets may include him in a sex positive relationship!
> 
> anyway I've never participated in kinktober because I don't feel like my fics are ever ~kinky enough but you know what. take some soft kink. just shoves it at you. anyway I'll be picking and choosing some prompts this october so stay tuned if you're into this soft kinky shit 👍


	2. Martin/Tim (+ Jon) - human furniture

“I’m– I don’t understand.”

“It’s– oh, God.” _Look,_ Jon showing up impromptu at his flat to talk cases is _fine,_ preferable, Martin _likes_ that they’re close enough to do that now, really! But Jon barging in while _Tim’s_ there is something else entirely, especially when Tim’s naked on all fours with Martin’s mug of tea settled in the small of his back like it’s a normal arrangement. And it is! Normal enough, anyway, for them. But not for Jon, who’s still staring with something like discomfort. Something that’s trying not to be discomfort. It's definitely confused concern, at the very least. “Umm, so… it’s… it’s a bit, being useful, I think. It’s hard to explain. Like, Tim knows I can use him. In every way. Even if it’s just, like, I can– I can put my feet up, or– or, like, my tea. And he just… takes it. Because that’s what a stool or a table does. And of course there’s the, uh, dehumanization aspect of it, I guess, but,” he adds quickly, because he’s getting too deep into kinks he doesn’t think Jon even wants to _think_ about. “But it’s still definitely a trust thing. Right? Like… it’s still a trust thing.”

“I…” Jon’s staring but not staring; his eyes don’t _stay_ on Tim, still knelt on the floor. His face is red (all of theirs are, even Tim’s, pink high on his cheekbones from the interruption, and that’s _gorgeous–_ focus) but he can’t entirely look away. Confused, curious. Not… not judgmental, though, Martin’s starting to realize. “… guess?” His eyes slide back to Tim again. “Er, but– doesn’t that– tea, it’s… hot, so–”

“Not so hot,” Martin says quickly. Tim’s assured him he doesn’t mind the burns, and Martin has to admit he kind of could get into the temperature play thing, but they’re not there yet. “I… there’s people that definitely do that. But I… I just do it when it’s just warm. Comfy, I guess?”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyebrows furrow, and he glances back at Tim again. _Curiouser and curiouser._ Well, this is probably like falling through the looking glass to Jon, honestly. He hadn’t run screaming, though! So that’s good! “I… hm.”

“He likes it,” Martin says softly. “Trust me, he does.”

“Hell yeah I do,” Tim says suddenly. The first words he’s said asides from uttering a hasty curse when Jon had barged in– although, to his credit, he _had_ maintained position and the fact that he’s talking now snaps Martin so immediately back into scene that he doesn’t even think before replying,

_“Tim._ Tables don’t talk.”

Jon flushes a bit more, and Tim shuts his mouth and thunks his forehead back against the floor.

“Right–” Jon starts.

“Sorry,” Martin apologizes at the same time.

Even from this distance, he can see the tremors on the surface of his tea. There’s no _noise–_ Tim knows better than to push the envelope twice– but he’s… he’s _laughing,_ at them. God, he’s terrible. This is terrible. Stupidly, Martin feels himself almost start to smile, too.

“I’m surprised he can handle being ignored,” Jon says, _thoughtful,_ and Martin laughs out loud himself.

“Oh, he _hates_ it. It’s amazing.” Oh, he doesn’t know why he’d said that. Just all the little reminders of Tim subtly trying to get his attention during these moments. Breathing a bit too loudly or leaning closer towards Martin– he’s a bit like an overgrown cat. Martin loves it. He’s not going to say that right now, though.

Jon makes a noise, then, that might just be a scoff of laughter. Maybe. But it’s definitely not an upset noise.

_God,_ what an evening.

“I, er, right, I still needed to talk to you about the investigation from yesterday, but if you–”

“No, it’s fine.” Martin steps away, careful in lifting his mug from Tim’s back. Then he runs his fingers down his spine, tapping gently at his hip. “Take a break?”

Tim thaws, sprawling onto the carpet with a heavy thump. Maybe he’s like a dog. Er, maybe he should stop thinking in that context just now, actually. Tim turns his head, hair splayed on the floor, and fixes them with a stare. “Hurry up,” he orders.

Martin wonders if he imagines that Jon rolls his eyes as well.


	3. Tim/Sasha - orgasm denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Fisting | Medical play |~~ **Orgasm denial**

Sasha wasn’t  _ normally  _ a sleep-around-with-your-coworkers type of person, but going out with Tim was a choice she didn’t regret making. And anyway, even if she ever  _ did, _ Tim would probably end it before she even could, out of guilt and over-concern, because Tim was like that. Lovely and caring, enthusiastic in all aspects but endlessly careful. So that’s probably why she doesn’t regret shagging him on the regular, even if they  _ are _ coworkers.

And it helps, a bit, that he’s so impossibly  _ fun _ that she can’t really imagine her life without him in it in some regard, sex or not. But definitely sex. The sex is fun, and lighthearted, and carefree.

“Oh God no, Sasha, don’t–”

Well,  _ mostly. _

She pulls her hand away from his cock when he starts to babble; he’s seen it coming, of course, round two, three, four of pulling back when he’s at the point of no return; that’s why he’d started to warn her off, but Sasha isn’t  _ really _ inclined to listen.

So she takes her hand off his dick and sits back and grins, and Tim swears up and down, red-faced and sweaty, straining against the restraints at his skin.

_ “Sasha!” _ he groans-chastises-pleads. It’s amazing, really, getting him to do that. No, it’s not like she suffers from a crippling inferiority complex where she thinks  _ well done her _ on getting someone like Tim to curse and plead at her, but she’d told him he wasn’t going to come tonight, and the power play is always welcome. “God! Please.  _ Please. _ I’m going to–”

“What?” she interrupts, leaning to press her hands against his chest. “You aren’t going to come off like this, we both know that. You aren’t  _ eighteen, _ Tim.”

“Fuck,” he swears again, squirming on the mattress. “You suck.”

“Not tonight.” She leans down to swallow the laugh that tumbles from his mouth, a gentle kiss even as he tries to surge up and press into it. Needy. He’s always incredibly needy like this.

So she drags her hand down his chest, over his ribs and down his hip. And she traces her fingertips against the heat of his body, along the soft skin at his groin and the hickeys she’d left at his thighs, avoiding his cock until he’s panting and trembling again.

“Sasha–”

“I told you that you weren’t getting off tonight,” she interrupts primly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “and you still told me to come over. This is  _ your _ fault. Not mine.”

_ “God,  _ I hate you,” he mutters,  _ grumbles, _ arching into the press of her body even as she moves away to sit back on the bed again. “Christ.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Now,  _ Tim,” _ she reprimands, patting his knee. “That’s not nice. And I was going to give you a treat if you behaved, too.”

Tim cracks an eye open, squinting at her through the fringe of hair stuck at his forehead. Hook, line, and sinker; Sasha smiles and parts her thighs, slow and deliberate, watching the muscle flex beneath Tim’s skin as he strains against his bonds.

“Fuck.”

“If you’re good, you can still get me off,” she says, saccharine sweet, and Tim yanks against the cuffs and then sags. “Good job. We’ll see how well you manage while I leave you here to calm down.” She ignores his whine as she crawls off the bed, and will make good on that promise, too. “Can’t trust you not to come while you’re eating me out, now can we?”

Tim curses again, a gutteral noise, and they both know the answer already.


	4. Basira/Daisy - breathplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for the implication of past learned police brutality (chokeholds) and some potentially unconventional/unhealthy coping mechanisms

“I want you to choke me.” 

If anything could distract her. Basira looks up from the book– boring, by even her standards, which was saying a _lot–_ and raises her eyebrows. “Sorry. What?”

Daisy’s by the window, darkness pouring in from the night outside. Uncomfortable, deadly. The Dark had never quite sat right with Basira, not after Ny-Ålesund. But that’s not the point. _I want you to choke me,_ Daisy had said, matter-of-fact. But her voice softens now as Basira catches her eye, inquisitive, and she curls in on herself. “You heard what I said.”

Daisy’s changed, too. After The Buried. Sometimes she’s so much a shrinking violet that Basira barely recognizes her anymore. But she can still see her, still find the old traces of her partner, beneath the surface, ready to explode. But not now. Not yet. Daisy is quiet, contemplative, but she doesn’t look away.

“You want me to choke you,” Basira repeats.

“You know how to do it.”

It’s true. She does. They both do. She considers, and closes her book. “Why?”

“I want you to,” Daisy says with such finality that Basira knows she won’t get anymore out of her. And when she leaves the library to skulk away to her cot, Basira isn’t surprised. She lets her go. She does not follow.

She spends the next two days reading. A chokehold isn’t erotic asphyxiation and she’s more comfortable going in armed with knowledge. Daisy doesn’t ask again, but later that night, Basira knows that Daisy had known she hadn’t had to. They’re in sync. They’re partners, after all.

She pushes Daisy farther than she had expected she would go– farther than she had expected herself to go. She rests her hands at the side of her neck and applies pressure up until a point where Daisy’s eyes flutter, short blonde lashes against a freckled face. Basira waits, and does it again.

It’s fascinating from her standpoint. To have Daisy’s life in her hands, again and always, hands wrapped snug around the pulsing throb of a pounding heart felt beneath her fingers. It’s fascinating, and she doesn’t dislike it, but she isn’t wet, and she wonders why she likes it the way that she does. It probably isn’t good. It probably isn’t safe. But nothing is, these days.

Even still, Basira is ever curious. “You’re getting something out of this?” she asks, when Daisy comes back slow after going quiet, nearly lax.

Daisy’s slow in coming around yet, but she laughs, once, rasping and weak. “Something,” she agrees, and quiets to catch her breath.

It isn’t good. It isn’t safe. But Basira thinks she understands, anyway.

She slides her hand from Daisy’s neck to cup her jaw, and leans in for an unhurried kiss.


	5. Jon/Martin - sensory deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Free Use |~~ **Sensory deprivation ~~~~**~~| Waxplay~~

It’s freeing, days like these.

The days where he goes to Martin’s after work, usually a weekend, and lets it all fall away because he knows that Martin will take care of him. And he does; he takes Jon’s hand and leads him into his flat, blindfolds him and binds his hands behind his back. He doesn’t give him earplugs; he doesn’t have to. The silence of Martin’s flat almost rivals the silence Jon can find only within the archives, the gentle ticking of a clock and, occasionally, Martin’s movement around him.

Jon can’t turn his mind off. He’d never been able to, not before this job and absolutely not now. It’s a fault, racing thoughts endlessly that keep him winding further and further into the depths of things he doesn’t want to explore, so familiar in the nights where he can’t get himself to sleep. And now, now Jon can’t help  _ Seeing, _ sometimes, little trickles of knowledge that come to him even as he kneels, unmoving, on Martin’s floor.

All of that said, he doesn’t hate it. It’s… nice.

It’s nice to be able to relinquish control over to Martin. It’s nice to close his eyes and relax, to take away the part of visual stimuli that they can these days. And he doesn’t have to touch, or move, or think critically, and it’s quiet, and calm, and… relaxing.

Jon barely knows what it’s like to relax.

The uncertainty of it, sometimes, creeps up on him during these moments, though. When he’s knelt, half disconnected from his body but not  _ enough, _ and it nags and nags and nags until he has to find his lips, and move his mouth, grateful for the fact Martin doesn’t gag him even though his questions are what gets him in trouble so very often. The anxiety skitters down his spine, and Jon murmurs, “Martin…?” out loud, tentative, and uncertain.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but part of him still expects Martin to leave in the middle of this one day. That Jon will be left, bound and senseless, alone. He hates that the idea even crosses his mind, because he trusts Martin. He really does. But fear is such a hard thing to break away from. Especially now. So he asks, whispers, pleading without begging for an answer to be forthcoming, and–

“Right here,” Martin says, and rests his hand on the top of Jon’s head.

He’s right there. Jon breathes out, a shaking thing, and tilts his head into the press of Martin’s hand. Warm and heavy against his scalp, comforting and  _ right there. _ Jon can’t see him, or touch him, or barely even hear him asides those two words and the minute sound of his breathing again, but he’s right there.

Jon sighs again, and relaxes. He is safe here, under Martin’s touch and supervision. He doesn’t have to worry about anything.

It’s easier said than done, of course, but Jon keeps his eyes closed beneath the blindfold long after Martin removes his hand again, and he kneels, and breathes, and trusts. 

He trusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waxplay was such a close second
> 
> yep, skipping some days. See you back with the crew on the 10th ;3c (maybe Tim. probably Tim. but no promises yet ehe)


	6. Tim/Martin - somnophilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Mommy/daddy kink |~~ **Somnophilia** ~~| Scissoring~~

Listen, sometimes you just woke up horny in the middle of the night from a sex dream that was so real that it practically had you coming in your pants even when you  _ weren’t _ an enthusiastic teen any longer. Sure. Tim got that. He got some nice regular sex dreams now and again, too, but rarely ones like these. Not these days, when the most common reason for waking up sweat-drenched and out of breath was  _ nightmares,  _ but he doesn’t  _ really _ want to think about it right now.

Right now, he just really wants to think with his dick, so that’s what he’s going to do.

Martin being asleep notwithstanding, but it isn’t the first time he’s woken him up in the middle of the night– nightmares, again, god, stop thinking about those– they can have good things. They’re allowed good things. If they can’t get anything else in life, they deserve a goddamn orgasm now and again. And he doesn’t think Martin’s going to mind. Much. He’ll tell him if he does and Tim will probably roll over and rub one out while Martin’s half-awake hazy and pretending to sleep, but then they’ll go back to sleep until it’s time to start the grind all over again.

Until then, Tim rolls to nestle in behind Martin, pressing his cock up snug against the cleft of his arse, and he kisses his neck, slow and careful, not to startle him awake from nightmares of his own. Then another; long, languorous passes of his mouth to warm his skin, to pull him from sleep. A flick of his tongue, tasting, a scrape of teeth. He rocks his hips against him, and Martin squirms, just waking up. Perfect.

He could just  _ bite, _ proper, leave a bruise on his shoulder and have Martin awake in two seconds flat. But he’s not  _ that _ bad. He might be horny, but he isn’t a heathen. So he slips his hand over Martin’s side instead, wiggling up under his t-shirt. He splays his hand against his belly and strokes up, dragging his nails against his skin. Lightly, lightly, and Martin makes a noise that might be confusion, but it sounds so lovely on him, groggy and half aware.

Tim thrusts against him again, still fully hard, and Martin stirs proper. “Tim…?”

He doesn’t cease his movements, hand winding up to palm a nipple, and chews a bit more at his neck. “Hmmm?”

“What…” He stiffens as Tim moves against him again, and then breathes out with a rush. “Tim.”

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Martin repeats, incredulous if not still mumbly. There’s a bit of a movement, and then he groans, clutching tighter at his pillow. “Tim, it’s four in the  _ morning.” _

“Is it?” He tweaks that nipple and kisses the nape of his neck. “Hadn’t noticed.”

_ “Tim, _ we have  _ work _ in  _ five hours.” _

“Mhm.” He traces his fingertips down his side, and delights in the way Martin shudders and squirms against him. “Just a quick one?” he murmurs against his skin, and smiles as Martin breathes out  _ again. _

“I– Christ, Tim. I’m– I’m  _ tired.” _

“Mm.” He knows. He rests his hand back at his hip, and squeezes. “Just like this?”

“I– yes.  _ Yes, _ God.” Martin’s flustered now, sounding as cross as he ever manages to get when Tim springs a quickie on him. Which is to say, the chastisement itself doubles as good wanking material. Martin knows exactly what that little annoyed tone does. Why he uses it, too. “Hurry up,” he continues, crisp, and Tim grins against his neck.

It’s not the first time he’s rubbed off on Martin, won’t be the last. He hangs on tighter to his hips and starts to rock against him in earnest. “Of course. Whatever you say.”

“Can’t even wait ‘til  _ morning.” _

He makes a noise in the negative, kisses so sloppy against Martin’s neck now he’s drooling a bit. “Was dreaming about you.”

“O–Oh. Um. Tell me?”

So Tim does, spinning the fantasy out loud. Watching Martin during work, the thoughtful little crease between his eyebrows as he takes information from people or the fiddle of his pen while surfing the web. Nervous energy, pent-up, and Tim can see it all from across the archives. And clearly the only solution for pent-up energy is a good dicking down, so if Tim corners him in the bathroom, or document storage, the break room or Jon’s office, and pushes him against the wall to strip down his trousers, it’s hardly a surprise. And it’s good for Martin, good for him to be so thoroughly fucked with Tim’s fingers ‘til he can barely stand, muttering about being caught like they both don’t thrill at the idea of it, and he says it’s good, babbles against the wall or the sofa or the desk he’s pressed against.

And they’re both so worked up that by the time Tim finally, finally slips in, Martin moans loud enough they really  _ might _ be caught, so Tim fucks him harder, quick to get them the point of release so that his come splatters against the wall, or the chair, or Tim’s hand. And when Tim comes inside of him, he plugs him up for later, lets Martin sit with him for the rest of the day, feel him inside until he takes himself home and cleans himself up and fingers himself again while thinking of Tim.

“Or,” Tim says breathlessly, rutting against him still, “you do all that to me, and I take it like the slut I am.”

Martin breathes  _ “Christ,” _ under his breath, and Tim comes in his pants.

“Ugh.  _ Tim,” _ Martin groans, as Tim sags against him. “Fuck.”

He laughs, rumbling against his shoulder blade. “Yeah?” Four in the morning is starting to catch up with him now, but then he’s always good for a nap if they’re not, oh, fucking at work or something. But even then, these days.

_ “Yeah,” _ Martin says, and elbows him gently to urge him back. Then he shuffles over onto his back, and the red on his face is visible even in the half light of dismal streetlamps and moonlight through the curtains. “Dammit. Now  _ I’m _ hard.”

Tim smiles, still nuzzled up against his shoulder again. “You want me to do you?”

“I– ah, I’m– I want to go back to sleep,” Martin groans, squirming in place. “I don’t need any  _ more _ worked up. Just– just, cuddle me, a bit? To fall asleep. Hopefully.”

Easy. “Sure thing,” he promises, and cuddles in close again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was inspired entirely by me and emperio's tma rp and i'm not even mad 👏👏👏


	7. Jon/Martin/Tim - watersports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Watersports** ~~| Temperature play | Stockings~~

“Alright, sunshines. Lemme up. Gotta piss.”

Jon made a noise, very much _Tim, don’t tell us your problems._ Not like he’d been a semi-active participant in the whole scene the past hour or so or anything. But it was Martin who clung onto him a little tighter, not saying a word, and Martin’s silences spoke _way_ more than his words could, sometimes.

“Martin?” Nothing. Tim sighed, and wriggled a bit. Mostly for dramatic effect. _“Mar_ tin, if you’ve got a kink, you gotta tell me if you want me involved.”

That got Jon’s attention, a bit. “Wait.” He looked at Tim, and then peeked at Martin over Tim’s chest. “What’s happening?”

Yeah, Martin was going steadily more red. Definitely a kink. Definitely a piss kink. Pretty common as things went, although Tim could understand why he hadn’t readily brought it up. “D’we need Jon to look in your mind?” he joked, which _was_ a joke– he’d never suggest it proper. And even Jon seemed squiggly about doing it even if they asked– but it did make Martin finally respond.

“No!” he said quickly, and then, a little more sheepish, “God, no. It– my– my mind is _not_ where Jon wants to go right now.”

Jon frowned, resting his chin on Tim’s chest.

“But me?” Tim prompted. “You can tell me, Martin. There’s definitely worse things than a piss kink.”

“Piss kink,” Jon repeated, and Martin squirmed.

“Shh.” He swatted his thigh. “No kinkshaming.”

“I’m not,” Jon said quickly. “I’m just, er. Thinking. I hadn’t thought of it. Heard of it. Before.”

“It’s not so uncommon. There’s variations of it. Stages?” Tim shrugged. “Although I don’t know what Martin’s is–” 

“I want you to piss on me,” Martin blurted, releasing Tim then to only throw his arms over his eyes. 

Which was just as well, probably, because Jon got a _look_ on his face, faintly horrified. “That’s–”

Tim nudged him.

“… filthy,” Martin whispered.

“… er, yes.”

Tim nudged him _again._

“I know,” Martin said miserably. “That’s why– I mean, that’s _obviously_ why–”

“Yes,” Tim interrupted.

Martin peeked out from under his arm. “… what?”

“Yes,” Tim repeated. “It’s filthy. Yes, I’ll do it. Hell yes. Let’s go. Because I need to go.”

“Right now?” Martin asked, eyes wide and embarrassed, looking all turned on in ways he had no right to. God, Tim wanted to eat him up.

“I have to _go,”_ he repeated. He didn’t know if it was just the piss thing or a desperation aspect but he could play to either. “And if we stay here much longer, we’re _all_ gonna get wet.”

Martin made a tiny noise, hurrying to kick the blankets away. “Right. Um. Christ. I’ll– is the shower okay? I don’t really feel like _cleaning,_ or having to do the wash–”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“You’re too good to me,” Martin said, and then, on his feet, finally, bashfully, looked at Jon again. “Jon, you, uh– I– I don’t want you to… I don’t want you uncomfortable? So you can stay here. Or… or you can watch,” he added. “Whichever you’d… like?”

“I…” Jon glanced at Tim, and then Martin again, as he sat up. “I’m not sure I get it,” he admitted, fixing his tousled hair. Cute. “But I’m not sure I get a lot of things. I’d still like to, um. Watch. If– If it’s something you enjoy, then–”

“Really, you don’t have to–”

“I’d like to,” Jon interrupted, and Martin smiled tremulously, bright splotches of color high on his cheeks.

Tim _really_ had the best partners here.

But now he was impatient, for a couple things, and Martin still had to undress. _“Okay,”_ he said, jiggling again, trying to nudge Jon out of bed. “I have to _pee._ Let’s _go.”_

Martin booked it for the bathroom, and Jon rolled his eyes as they were left alone. 

“You’ve held it a _lot_ longer than this before. Very vocally.”

 _“Listen,_ that time the plumbing was fucked, I was about to piss outside. In broad daylight. In _Chelsea,”_ Tim retorted, because that had been a _day._ “Besides, he likes it. And I like acting up,” he added, swatting Jon’s arse on the way to the bathroom.

It did its job, because Martin was already knelt naked in the ridiculously small shower, which even had Jon muttering _“Christ”_ under his breath as he followed him in.

“You’re so good,” Tim said, fumbling with his flies. “Always so eager, Martin.” He stepped into the shower, leaning his back to the wall. “Anywhere you want it? Or– Or _don’t,_ I guess.” Asking if _you want me to piss on your face?_ felt so… unsexy.

“No, uh– anywhere. Anywhere,” Martin murmured. So that answered that.

“Right. But– I mean I’ve never done this before, but– you’ll probably want to close your eyes. If you want it above the shoulders.”

“Oh.” Martin swallowed, hand slipping down to his cock. Already half hard. _Nice._ “I’d… I think I’d rather watch, er, it. So maybe… not that, this time, then.”

“Next time,” he said, and delighted in the way Martin reacted to that promise. “You ready?”

“Yes. Please.”

It took a few breaths to get started, because it was evidently a lot harder to piss in the shower when the water wasn’t on and your, you know, boyfriend was kneeling in front of you, but once it began, it was easy to keep up, especially when that first splash hit Martin on his thighs and he stiffened, and then sagged, mouth falling open slightly.

He looked _damn_ fine after that, hand moving against himself as Tim directed the stream to his stomach, to cover his thighs, and to the hand moving against his prick. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to aim higher, yet, even though they’d agreed not above the shoulders. Sure, it was kind of moot anyway, because Martin’s eyes were closed now, and he was breathing hard, but Tim thought he’d _definitely_ love to saturate Martin’s hair, watch it drip down his face, into his open mouth. In future. 

It was sexy and messy and he was ruining him in the best way. All because he’d asked. And it felt fucking fantastic, actually, watching Martin jerk himself while simultaneously getting the feels from having a good piss. They were definitely going to have a next time.

It lasted an entirely too short of time, Tim thought, before he shook away the last drops and felt almost as wrecked as Martin looked. In a good way. A great way. Who knew!

“God, Martin,” he said out loud.

Martin’s eyes snapped open. “Tim. That was–”

“Amazing?”

 _“Christ,_ yeah.”

 _“Same,”_ Tim replied quickly, and then glanced over at Jon. Who was still standing near the door, a hand over his face like _he_ was the one who ought to be mortified, blushing more than _Martin_ had been earlier. “Jon?”

He jumped like he’d been caught, looking between Tim and Martin.

“How ya doing?”

“That was…” His eyes flicked between them again. “Um. Uh, _p–private._ Too private, it’s– this.” He gestured vaguely, and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “And… _completely_ unfair how… how, um, God.” He puffed out a breath and looked away. “Good you both looked.”

“O–Oh?” Martin looked up. His hand was still moving, lazier now. Tim wondered if they could coax another orgasm out of him after the shower. Or during. Hm.

“I– I couldn’t… _couldn’t,”_ Jon continued, “but I’m… very pleased you two enjoy it. Actually.” 

_“‘Actually,’”_ Tim mouthed, and Martin laughed.

“Go…” Martin swallowed, carefully getting to his feet. “Go, back to bed, with Jon? You can cuddle. While I clean up? If you’d like that?” he asked, looking at Jon.

“Are you sure you don’t–”

“No, it’s your turn to be doted on.”

“I don’t need _doted_ on,” Jon protested, faintly, but Tim was already out of the shower, stepping to the small sink to wash his hands.

“He’s right, boss. You’re up. Let’s _snuggle!”_ He flicked water from his fingers and met Martin’s gaze in the mirror. “And you. Don’t think about getting off again without us, ‘kay?”

Martin flushed even further, but nodded enthusiastically all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attribute the fact this one's so long to a) I'm vaguely unsatisfied and thus kept trying to make it better and b) Tim and Martin are my wordiest characters lmao 😔
> 
> also clearly set in a different universe than the first chapter huh LOL


	8. Martin/Elias - dacryphilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Feet | Shotgunning |~~   
>  **Dacryphilia**
> 
> heed the pairing in the title. while nothing explicit happens (nothing explicit? In MY kinktober? more likely than you think!) Elias is icky and his actions are very much unwanted by Martin. this also counts as an ep118 tie in, so that's the kind of stuff we're stepping in 👌

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Martin _knows,_ knows why his mother hates him the way that she does. He’s not stupid. He’s not _blind._ And he remembers just enough, from when he was a kid. But in the thick of things, in the midst of dealing with The Stranger, it was easier to let himself go and forget, even when he looked in the mirror and saw himself, and his dad, and the person his mum missedlovedloathed the most staring back at him. He _knows._

And he’d known that staying behind with Elias wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to be shit, actually, and he’d… he’d volunteered. Readily. Willing to do whatever it took as long as it paved Jon’s path to stopping the Ritual. He doesn’t regret it.

But Elias saying it all out loud hurts like hell. Martin can’t stop the tears, and he hates himself for that, too.

“You will never be anything else to her, Martin,” Elias says, stopping in front of his desk. “You will always remind her of her biggest failure.” He braces his hands on the desk. “The days she thinks of you, she remembers the worst mistake she ever made.”

Martin… knows the plan worked. Is working. Elias… is… distracted. He’d looked a bit manic, but now there’s fire in his eyes that burns Martin to the core and then utterly fucking _incinerates_ the ashes. Elias isn’t just destroying him, he’s… eviscerating him. And that’s, he thinks, why he knows it’s working.

And it’s easy to give into, easy to goad Elias further into the knowledge. He doesn’t even have to try. He chokes on the sob, shakes his head even though he knows it’s true, and lets Elias keep reveling in being able to _see_ all.

So it is that Martin doesn’t notice the hand on his face until it’s there, fingers slipping along the tears still falling freely. He jerks back, from the touch of cold and the rush of pictures Elias’s already placed into his head, but there’s nowhere to go short of getting to his feet. He doesn’t think he can. He isn’t sure it’s to anyone’s benefit if he does, anyway.

“I can tell you something else, Martin.”

 _No,_ he wants to say. _No,_ his mind shrieks. But he guesses that there’s enough of The Beholding in him that he can’t leave well enough alone, either. He has to know. And it’s all for the distraction. He has to keep him distracted. “What?” he gasps, Elias’s hand still on his face.

He swipes his thumb over Martin’s wet cheek, and says, quietly, “this is the best you will ever be. Just this. An absolute, utter mess.” Another pass of his thumb, and he straightens up, raising his wet fingertips to his lips.

Martin stares, and Elias licks at his tears.

He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have asked, he shouldn’t’ve asked, he shouldn’t’ve have asked–

“Don’t burn any more statements,” Elias says, and closes the door behind him.


	9. Jon/Tim - body worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Body worship** ~~| Spanking | Frottage~~

Jon doesn’t _get_ physical attraction.

He’d warned Tim, early on, about his inability to _understand_ what attraction meant to people, what it was supposed to mean in a relationship. He couldn’t _see_ what other people saw in that regard– didn’t see the body as anything but utilitarian. Jon was pragmatic that way. Tim was always the opposite, finding so many people so hot in ways that was unfair sometimes, but hey! Different strokes, different folks. And Tim didn’t _need_ to be told he was hot. He liked it. But he didn’t need it.

That being said, he’d be remiss if he didn’t try to prove to Jon that his own body was more than just a _thing._ That Jon was beautiful in his own way, too. He wasn’t ever sure if he got his point across, but he tried.

In the way he held Jon through the night, when the days were long and the nights were longer. He’d tuck him up against him, Jon’s impossibly small frame. He was bony and fragile and gaunt, and Tim worried about him every damn day. But he could at least hold him on the nights they spent together, run his hands up and down all the nodules in his spine, try to coax him into sleep.

Or the kisses he would drop against his skin, his face and cheek and chin. Or further down, and further down, tracing over the pulse in his neck, the dip in his collarbones, down the smattering of hair at his chest. That did something, usually, always, in the way Jon’s breathing quickened, the way he’d start to fidget beneath Tim’s lips.

Sometimes, they would fuck somewhere about then. Most of the time, though, it was more sensual than sexual. Tim just liked to take his time to explore, and enjoy, and exalt.

Jon’s ribs were always too prominent, always too easy to trace beneath his fingers. And no, all this aside, Jon wasn’t _sickly_ looking, but it was just that knowledge of a life of recent hardship and the fact that the thing that Jon consumed the most of these days wasn’t food to begin with. But Tim doesn’t linger on that, can’t, not here, so instead he’d smooth his hands up Jon’s abdomen and chest, reach up to squeeze his shoulders and lean in to peck a quick kiss to his lips.

In another person, all of this might have been a quick, surefire way to pop a boner, touching and caressing and kissing. But Jon rarely got there, and that was alright. So alright.

He’d grip onto Jon’s hips with both of his hands, thumbs along the delicate dips there. Skinny, so skinny. But at least that made him easier to manhandle– manhandle, he said, which meant throwing Jon over his shoulder and carrying him to bed if the need arose. (It usually did.) How many times he’d thrown him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hefted him off, Jon protesting the whole way. He wondered. 

But not that now, just swirling his fingers at the soft skin there, contemplative and considering. 

And sometimes he’d trail kisses down Jon’s legs too, over the bruises that he always seemed to have there. Walking into things, tripping over boxes, or maybe he was just prone to injuring himself in every way possible. Which wasn't _okay,_ but it wasn't like he couldn't use the opportunity to kiss each and every other discolored patch of skin, taking the time to linger, gentle, against the ones that were particularly new or particularly dark. 

(And yes, Jon was also ticklish on his knees. Tim had learned that the hard way, although it was funny to look back on afterwards. Mostly funny. But if he hooks his fingers around the back of his leg, strokes up and down with a touch that can't be interpreted as _light_ in any form of the word, they just about manage to avoid a knee in the face again.)

If he’s feeling generous, and he always is, with Jon, he’ll always be up for a massage, or rubbing his feet, all the domestic, coddling attention he loved to give him. Most of which are things that Jon doesn’t even like to _do_ since it involves trying to sit around, do nothing, and simultaneously relax. But if Jon’s especially achy, he manages to talk him into it, peppering kisses along the way. 

Yeah, and the scars. Tim couldn't ignore them if he wanted to, and part of him really does want to. It’s the part that hates his own scars, hates the reminder of what had happened back with Prentiss, but. Well. Fake it ‘til you make it! Right? And they somehow seem _nicer_ on Jon. Which isn’t true, not at all; they’re literally the exact same scars from the exact same worms. Therein lay the rub, he supposed. But it was okay. It was all okay. It wasn’t like he was mapping out the patterns of his own scars with his mouth and fingers and hands. Only Jon’s. Slowly, and carefully, smothering each of them in the attention it deserved, and Tim tried not to focus on how he didn’t think _his_ did. That was his own problem, and Jon liked to trace his fingers– absentmindedly, Tim thought– over Tim’s, anyway. It wasn't a hard limit, for either of them, although, in that regard, Tim supposed Jon had it easier to just dismiss physical looks and move on. 

Ah well. Things always went pear-shaped when he thought about himself too much. Better to focus on Jon! So he did. 

“You're beautiful,” he says, kissing each of Jon's fingertips. 

“Right,” Jon replies, habit and reflex, and Tim doesn’t know if he’s ever going to get him to believe it. 

But then Jon smiles, small but quietly pleased. Tim kisses his palm and presses Jon’s hand to his cheek, and thinks maybe he’s doing a good enough job, after all. 


	10. Jon/Georgie - massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Prostitution | Armpit |~~ **Massage**

“You should really do something about this, Jon.”

“No, it’s– ah– just me.”

_“No,”_ Georgie said, stubbornness creeping back into her voice, and Christ, that _wasn’t_ what Jon was aiming for at all. He just wanted to relax here. “It isn’t just you. It’s your shit-all way of taking care of yourself. Meaning, you don’t.”

“Georgi– _ow.”_

She just dug her fingers into that aching spot in his back like it was _nothing,_ a further ache of pain that leveled into something more pleasant. “Don’t ‘ow’ me, Jon. Your whole body is ‘ow.’ You’re twenty years old and you sound like an old man.”

_“Lots_ of people here sound like old men– Christ! Georgie!”

She gave a hell of a massage, Georgie. Devilishly talented with her fingers and Jon wasn’t an idiot, he knew he was shit at taking care of himself and that Georgie was _pretty_ much the one on top of his health but… he was just busy. And had shit posture, and well– his body hurt. Hence, his girlfriend giving him a damn good massage.

She kneaded against the point of pain, letting it disperse into a dull ache, and then skitter across his skin as a pleasant tingle of nerves. He let out a breath and sagged into the pillow.

“Better now?”

“… yes,” he muttered, admitting out loud, and she just hummed a noise that was probably… chastisement, or being pleased, or… something. Jon gave up arguing, content to let her work her magic.

Too much magic, maybe, actually. 

Look, Jon wasn’t… he’d never been _inclined_ like most people, and maybe it, sort of– just– _interrupted_ his and Georgie’s relationship sometimes, but she never seemed particularly upset, even when he knew it was an inconvenience– _anyway,_ very little _did_ it for him. They both knew that. It was mostly okay. Right.

But, er– technically speaking, he– he knew how, um, how it worked. Of course. He had– they had– yes, had sex. And he knew how bodies worked, strictly speaking. Touching, uh– t–touching could do it. Not… not necessarily something that did it for him, by himself, not… not _usually,_ actually, but…

Ah. Jon held himself very still, trying _very_ hard not to pay attention to how his body was reacting to Georgie’s touch. Which, of course, meant that Georgie noticed _right_ away. 

“If you’re uncomfortable, Jon–”

“No,” he interrupted, although it _was_ marginally uncomfortable to be belly-down against a boner, but no, not uncomfortable that way. “I’m not– ah, I’m a bit… _too_ comfortable. That is, my body. To your, uh… hands.”

A beat of silence, explaining in the most roundabout fucking way that no one would understand _except_ someone he spent time with regularly– 

“Oh!” Georgie pulled her hands back, up and away from Jon’s now overheated skin. Truth be told, he wanted to follow her touch, mostly for the massage, but now something starting that was a nuisance at most times. Shit. “Wow, um, really?”

“I didn’t mean to make it awkward–”

“No, really. That’s cool. I didn’t expect–”

“Nor did I,” Jon said quickly.

“Do you…” Georgie trailed off, and then pressed her hand back against the small of his back. Gently, but a presence that was very there. “Do you want me to keep going?”

He did, very much. But now he was suddenly too aware that that pleasure was going to exacerbate the buzzing beneath his skin, and the massage wouldn’t just be the massage. “It might… turn into something else,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to have it off just because you pop a boner, Jon.”

“I know that!” he replied briskly, and then puffed out a breath. His face was hot. “It’s been awhile and I think I might… like to. Do something, with you. Have sex,” he clarified. “But only if you’re– uh– ‘in the mood…’”

He practically heard her shrug. “You know I’ve got an active libido. I’m ready to fool around whenever you want.”

He knew that. It was still embarrassing to hear out loud. How could she be so _open_ about it–! “Right,” he managed. “Thank you.”

“Oh, God, Jon, you make it sound like a _transaction.”_

“Sorry, sorry.” He wasn’t good at this. But she knew that, too.

“Right.” She paused, again, and then, pressure at the small of his back, the drag of her fingernails against his skin. “You want me to finish the massage first?”

Oh. He… “Yes,” he murmured. “If…”

“It’s okay,” Georgie said, and started kneading at the sore points at his body like there hadn’t been an interruption. And that both scared Jon, that boldness, and… thrilled him, a bit.

So Georgie gave him that massage. And when he was meant to be relaxed, he was keyed up in a way altogether _good,_ and exciting, and after all of what he was generally considering _foreplay,_ it took a ridiculously short time for Jon to climax once her hands were on him, once his fingers were in her. Yes, there was a bit more touching, from him to her and vice versa, in ways that weren’t at all therapeutic and a bit more noise, when he couldn’t stifle his whimpers into the pillow he’d previously been clutching, but it was… it was nice.

A little sore from the massage still, a little exhilarated from the endorphins, and Jon collapsed back into the blankets with Georgie curling up, catlike, next to him. He would sleep well tonight.

“Night, Jon,” Georgie said, and pecked a kiss against his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell if my uni!Jon is more insufferable or more relaxed but I like writing him younger and not totally having grown into himself yet ha


	11. Jon/Martin/Tim - threesome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Three (or more) some** ~~| Master/slave | Titfucking~~

Jon was great at idle affection. 

He didn’t prefer sex and kissing always seemed a bit awkward. Even if he did do both of those things on occasion! And they were _really_ nice when they happened but, like, Jon _excelled_ at hand-holding and gentle touching and kissing at shoulders or his neck or hair. Casually domestic stuff, something Tim wasn’t super used to? But had grown to love, so? Jon sitting behind him now, pressed up against his spine and kissing at his neck, at hickeys that were days darkened, it was _lovely._ His hand was toying with one of Tim’s, on the blankets, and Tim had to squeeze his fingers to bring him back to the present when he got distracted by looking– in what was probably a fond way, he knew– down at Martin.

Who was currently knelt between Tim’s knees, noisily sucking his cock.

Martin was _great_ at sucking cock.

Not to devalue him or anything, of course not, because Martin was great at a lot of things. Work, tea, taking care of people. He was good on the idle affection front, too. And a master of aftercare and precare and he could be the softest fucking dom Tim had ever had the pleasure of being dommed by– not to reduce their relationship to just _sex._ But, well. _Here they were._

Martin pulled off with an ungodly wet noise, those sloppy kind of sounds that pretty much drove Tim a little bit wild, and the trail of spit and precome was a nice little bonus, too. And he had to kiss him after that. Of course he did.

Except he didn’t get that far, because as he leaned forward in full preparation of grabbing Martin’s face in his hands and giving him a breath-stealing kiss, Jon’s arms locked around his chest and pulled him back, holding him in place.

“Jon.”

“You can’t touch him until you come,” Jon muttered against his shoulder. “That was the deal.”

He hadn’t forgotten. He was hoping they had. Stupid rule, why had he agreed to it? Oh right. Because Martin had looked sly and Jon had laughed that dumb soft laugh that would have been devious in anyone else. Here they were.

“Well then, stop pulling off,” he complained, mockingly annoyed, and gestured from Martin to his prick. “How is it _my_ fault if he keeps pulling off?”

“Hey,” Martin retorted, hand moving along the erection he was sporting himself, and– yeah, _that_ look, that was the look, the look that said he knew he could _ruin_ Tim if he wanted to try. Smug. He was just _smug_ with his damn hand on his cock. It made Tim wanna kiss him more. “I want to admire the view now and again, too,” Martin continued, and he was _definitely_ fond looking up at him and Jon. “You both look lovely.”

Again, Tim went for that kiss. 

Jon bit his shoulder. “Behave.”

Okay, Jon was a minx, too. In his own way. God.

Tim put on his best forlorn expression, and complained, “I hate you both.” Sure. They’d call it that. Definitely hated them. So much. _So_ so much.

Martin just laughed, and mouthed his way back up his cock. Jon kissed the bite at his neck, and went back to playing with his hair.

Tim happily resigned himself to the long haul, and sank into the sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he just hates them _sooooo much 🙄 I love a whiny Timothy huh_


	12. Gerard/Michael - bloodplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Petplay | Humiliation |~~ **Bloodplay**
> 
> ****heads up that Gerry is grumbly but everything is 110% consensual 👌

Gerard Keay had a high pain tolerance. 

He’d learned that a long time ago, back when he was younger. His mother had taught it to him whether she’d intended to or not, and in more ways than one. No, he’d never been destined for a soft and comfortable life. He’d never deluded himself into that.

You didn’t open your eyes to the other worlds and expect any different than what you got. He wasn’t naïve and he had never had the chance to be. 

The archives were no different. Maybe a different means to a different end– even if that, some days– but lots of danger, pain, and things out to kill you.

And then there was Michael.

Not the old Michael, mind, not the soft blond that had wiggled beneath Gerard’s war-paint armor, and into his bed. Not the stubborn little fuck who hadn’t given up anything, or anyone; not Gerard, not Gertrude, not the archives or the monsters who came and went from their gaze. Michael had been… yeah, soft. And stupid, too naïve for their world, but it wasn’t like Gerard had ever been able to _blame_ him for that. He’d probably come from a completely different life than he had. They’d never talked about it, Michael for reasons unknown and Gerard for completely obvious ones.

Back then, Gerard might have said Michael was one of the lucky ones.

Now, though, Michael towering two heads above him, twist and angles and a grin too wide, not so much. 

“Stop smiling.”

“Ahhh… humans. So fragile.”

It wasn’t that it hadn’t hurt. It had, but in the same way anything else hurt. Sharp, hot, familiar, like a dagger in his thigh. He’d sworn aloud, more reflex than pain, and Michael had removed their hands with a tiny “oh!” Like it was such a goddamn _surprise_ those sharp fucking fingers could tear Gerard’s skin to ribbons. Christ, for being a manifestation of _The Spiral,_ he shouldn’t have been sharp edges– but Gerard knew that wasn’t how it worked.

Anyway, the damage was done. He’d felt the stab of pain, followed by the trickle of blood, steadier now as it wound down to his knee. Not so bad. It would scar, and ruin the bedsheets. It was a nuisance, one that now Michael was looking like they were stupidly pleased to have done. Evidently Gerard’s ‘humanity’ was a never-ending source of _amusement._

Although, you know, it _was_ kind of a joke. One big cosmic fucking caper. Oh well.

“Is this becoming a _regular_ thing?” he complained. “Leaving your mark on me.”

“No. It was an accident, Gerry.” For a moment, Michael looked displeased, and then, in the next, _“although_ I suppose I don’t mind. It likes it.”

 _It._ The elusive ‘it,’ the Everything. Michael’s patron, which yeah, Gerard knew he was feeding just by being here because who in their right mind would have a _relationship_ with _The Spiral._ He didn’t care. “What? Hurting me?” he complained.

“No.” Michael paused. “Yes? Marks! Claims are nice. I’m always looking.”

“Yeah, well. Bully for whoever else gets their cock sucked by a living manifestation of fucking _insanity.”_

Michael laughed, and laughed, until Gerard’s head pounded in ways like too long of nights at the archives, agony in his brain that medication couldn’t touch. He felt his nose start to bleed. Again. Fucker. _“Michael.”_

But Michael just kissed him again, then, and he could taste the blood on his lips, between his teeth. He arched into the press of Michael’s body, stretched and heavy and wrong in the kind of way he craved. The blanket fell away from where he’d bundled it against the bleeding wound on his thigh, and Michael’s heavy-wet palm landed over it instead. It hurt in a way that didn’t but did, when Michael pressed over it. The slick of blood spread, and Michael giggled against his mouth.

It was a mess. All of it.

And Gerry loved every minute of it, from the ache and the pain to the twisting curls of blond hair, tinged now with red at their ends, and his own body throbbing with the music of Michael’s laugh, the movement of their hands, and the taste of the blood in his mouth.


	13. Jon/Elias - cockwarming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Hate sex |~~ **Cockwarming |** ~~Mirror sex~~

He floats the idea to Elias, accidentally, one day in his office. He blames Tim, really, that stupid comment about fitting under desks and oral and the like. Jon just happens to be _thinking_ about it, in passing, as Elias signs off on some papers for funding and he… evidently… floats the idea. Or maybe Elias takes it. He doesn’t know, exactly. All he knows is he’s remembering Tim joking, and then Elias startles him, saying, “I would let you, Jon.”

He’s thrown off, for a moment. He sometimes still forgets that his thoughts aren’t sacred here, or anywhere. It bothers him less than it should, but in moments like these…

“All you have to do is ask,” Elias says.

And Jon considers it.

After everything, all the moments, the casual touches, the compliments given freely, he isn’t sure exactly _what_ he and Elias are. He feels the Beholding the strongest around him, the bounce of Power from one body to the next and sometimes Jon nearly thrums with the potential of it all (when Elias brushes a hand at his shoulder, when he tells him well done on a case.) But now Elias offers something like this, simple, a proposition without strings. (Jon can’t imagine there are strings. He doesn’t think eldritch power increases with, er, with oral. Or any of that.) And he imagines fitting himself under Elias’s desk, unbuckling and unbuttoning and taking him in his mouth, and it almost sounds… nice.

Almost.

“I’m–” Jon struggles as he feels the idea slip further away from his interest. “I don’t think I’d… be comfortable. With that,” he clarifies. The aspect of being seen by anyone other than Elias sends the anxiety skittering, and he’s never been inclined for using his mouth on a man, anyway.

“That’s fine,” Elias replies, and the acceptance is given so freely that Jon is nearly startled. Consent is still… a concept he’d been learning since secondary, but Elias looks unfazed by the rebuttal. Even though it had been Jon’s initial, partially accidental fantasy. “A passing thought, then. Nothing more.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, because that was all it had been.

A week later, he floats the idea of _Elias_ with his cock in _his_ mouth. It’s not accidental. Part of him wonders what the hell he’s doing, but it’s ultimately a part he decides not to listen to. He wants to Know. Needs to, to feel what the connection could be and he has, inarguably, always been much more open to the idea of receiving. He _does_ very much enjoy that. So he gives Elias the idea, nervous and anxious in turns, and waits.

Elias is amenable. _That’s more than fine by me,_ the memo says. That, and only that, when Rosie knocks on Jon’s door and hands him the note from their boss. Jon nearly shudders at the thought that Rosie could have read it– even though there’s no way to equate it back to _sex–_ even still. Work hours are still off limits. Christ, for being an avatar under a patron dedicated purely to voyeuristic tendencies, he terrifies a bit at the thought of being watched himself. By anyone other than Elias, of course.

But it doesn’t matter. He stays late, ostensibly to keep working. But in reality, he’s waiting. Waiting to see if Elias has stayed late as well, if he shows up… and he does, knocking on Jon’s already open door and asking if now was a good time.

“Close the door,” he says, and Elias does.

He doesn’t have the luxury of a desk like Elias’s. Maybe good, maybe bad, but Elias is small enough that it shouldn’t hinder… hinder… this.

“Jon.”

He can’t think of a single suitable thing to say now. _He_ is never the one leading sexual advances. So he just spreads his legs slightly, an invitation. He hopes he doesn’t blush as furiously as it feels like he is. He’s the _Archivist,_ dammit, get it together–

“Lovely,” Elias says, and whatever Jon had been about to berate himself over disappears like the wind. He just… wants to Know. He deserves to Know.

He trembles a little in excitement as Elias undoes his trousers and slides his mouth right onto his cock, and it’s… Christ, yeah, it’s _nice,_ it’s good, such a rare thing and a rare treat for Jon, and it’s _Elias._ It’s the Beholding. Jon wonders if he imagines that he can _feel_ that, a closeness more than just a mouth at his cock. He thinks he can. He _Knows_ he can.

It’s overwhelming in its own right. Not in a bad way, but just… fitting into something so perfectly. In the metaphorical sense. And– well, Elias nestles in, folded on his knees, looking content– and– and… literally, too. But anyway.

He’s just about to open his mouth, warn Elias that it’s maybe… that he should take things _slow,_ but… but. He doesn’t have to. Because Elias isn’t moving, not his body or his mouth, he’s just… sitting. With Jon settled on his tongue. Encapsulating him, enveloping him.

Jon hesitates, but they’re all in now. He reaches down to rest his hand on top of Elias’s head, not quite threading through his hair yet but close. Maybe in a moment. “Stay just like that…?” he asks, quiet.

Elias just nods, a tiny incline of his head that Jon barely feels. But he has settled, and his eyes have slipped shut, too, and he looks so at peace that Jon has to look away before he burns up from embarrassment.

Work. He’s got work to do. He needs– he needs to _work._

He goes back to it, and finds he’s more comfortable here than he’s been in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My secondary option of TimElias + hate sex was also the _closest_ contender here OTL


	14. Jon/Martin - foodplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Noncon/dubcon~~ | **Foodplay |** ~~Creampie~~

“Martin, no offense, but this is ridiculous.”

_That_ was the first time Jon had ever been so upfront about _anything_ they’ve tried in the bedroom. The boldness might have startled him, set his heart to pounding in anxiety and all his second-guessing but Martin… kind of… had to agree? 

_Look,_ he enjoyed incorporating food into sex, it was _fun_ and messy and you could get so many different sensations from it. He’d had _good_ times experimenting with foodplay in the past and bringing it up to Jon had been a bit… a lot, but Jon hadn’t been put off by the idea so they’d just _tried_ it. But Martin had realized that his attempts to be, uh, flirtatious with it were kind of falling on deaf ears, and then Jon had gone to fix his glasses and ended up rubbing a missed smear of chocolate from his wrist across his face, and spluttered over that and… and it was kind of ridiculous. Not bad. There was exasperation in Jon’s eyes, but not upset, and it was just… definitely not working out for the two of them.

And it was kinda funny how _terrible_ the whole thing had gone. And Jon still had chocolate on his face. And it was kinda cute. Not– not in the _this is hot, I wanna fuck you_ way but in the gentle, domestic _you’re got food on your face and look silly_ way. _Definitely_ not sexy, but…

“Agreed,” Martin sighed, content to let this one go. There were so many things that could go wrong in their lives, so chocolate sauce was pretty lowkey. He licked a speck of it from one of his knuckles, absentmindedly starting to think about the hell that was going to be clean-up. His penance for liking messy things, he guessed.

“I mean,” Jon continued, scrubbing at a dried streak of it along his arm, “I’m _sorry,_ but I just can’t get into the appeal–”

“No,” he interrupted, “I mean, same. It’s– I just keep thinking about how cute you look, actually.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“It isn’t a bad thing!” Martin protested. “It’s, like, domestic. You know. You’ve got food on your face, it’s kind of… I dunno, endearing?”

Jon didn’t seem to hear the compliment, running his fingers over his face. “Where is it? Where did I miss it?”

Mr Prim and Proper with food on his face. Yeah– Martin laughed, touching a spot on his own jaw to demonstrate– he should have _known_ this would go down like a lead balloon. But that was okay. It had still been fun, and it’d been awhile since… since he’d laughed like that.

“I’m so glad I vetoed the honey,” Jon was muttering, between licking his thumb and wiping at the chocolate that was still liberally about. 

Martin watched on with amusement. “And _yet,_ let me have frozen grapes,” he teased. “Something to tell me, Jon?”

Jon stopped working to clean himself up for a second, lifting his head to fix Martin with a deadpan stare. “I like grapes.”

He startled himself with his own laughter, and then still didn’t know exactly what came over him when he leaned over to pluck one of them from the bowl on the nightstand. “Yeah?” They were still cold, and he got a terrible (great) idea. He looked back at Jon. “You like grapes.”

Jon definitely didn’t like whatever look was on Martin’s face, because he’d gone all wary. “Martin?”

“I mean, we just happen to have a lot. Left over.” He leaned forward on the bed. “And they’re still cold.”

“Martin–” Jon started, but too late; Martin made a lunge for him, ready to press the grape against his neck. “Martin!” Jon scrambled up, a flurry of pillows and his scrawny arse fleeing to the doorway. “Martin, do _not–”_ he started, again.

Martin grinned, punting the grape towards him.

Jon ducked out of the way, staggering back into the hall. “Martin! That’s– those are– cold!” Like _that_ was the big issue here. Food fight? Nah. Potential cold? Definitely the big problem.

He threw another one, testing; Jon took the bait and turned and _fled._

Martin leapt off the bed, laughing as he gave chase.

He cornered him in the kitchen, taking pity enough to _not_ pelt him with the handful of grapes he’d brought with him. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him in, laughing, and Jon was almost _laughing,_ too– smiling, happy. The happiest _he_ got these days, and that was nice.

Martin leaned down to kiss him. Maybe this whole venture hadn’t been in vain, after all.

“Menace,” Jon muttered against his mouth.

“Hey, you’re the one who said he likes grapes,” Martin teased.

“I stand by my statement,” Jon said, and somehow, _somehow,_ when Martin wasn’t looking, he must have grabbed one of the thrown grapes because next thing Martin knew, Jon had dropped a (definitely! still! cold!) grape down his shirt and was wriggling away as Martin yelped from the shock.

_“Jonathan!”_ Martin yanked his shirt, watching the grape fall and roll innocently under the stove. _“Sims!_ You’re going to get it now!” he promised, and was rewarded with Jon’s laughter echoing down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay maybe this one isn't kinky at all but! Part of kink is figuring out what works and doesn't work for you! And they get to have fun anyway! ~~i may adore this one~~


	15. Elias/Peter - exhibitionism/voyeurism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Size difference~~ | **Exhibitionism/voyeurism |** ~~Impact play~~

“Are you watching, Elias?”

Peter knows that he is. He _is_ ceaseless, after all. 

He’s never much cared for Elias’s patron… all knowing, all seeing, nowhere to hide away from the prying eyes that followed and surrounded you. Ugh. It truly was his worst nightmare. Here, out on the Tundra, now, this is about as Lonely as he can get. And even then it’s not perfect, not flawless; he still has a crew, has to have a crew, to man the ship and prep for sacrifices, but… most days, he can tune them out, breathe in the smell of the ocean and fog, and it’s… comfortable. Familiar. Home.

And on the opposite end of the spectrum, back at his other home, the one he’d been taught to recognize as his– England– he knows that Elias is watching. Because he is, always, and will be, until the Rituals go off or something _else_ manages to destroy the world. It’s a gross invasion of privacy, the feeling of eyes on the back of his head, but just with him, just like this, it’s… it’s comfortable as well, really.

Probably, he’d feel lost without them, at this point. 

“Silly question,” Peter says aloud, slipping his hand into his trousers. “Nevermind me.”

It’s been a good day. A gentle sea, calm winds. They’re close enough to their little sacrifice that the crew can feel it; _Peter_ can feel it, longing deep in his bones for the moment when Tadeas will blow the boatswain’s call and he can welcome the Lonely over him like his truest friend. And he knows it won’t last, oh no. The crew will row back, relax and start to _mingle_ and Peter will want off this boat quicker than he had vanished onto it, but until then… he will relish in this silence and fear, and the knowledge that Elias is watching him as he strokes himself off in these delightfully peaceful quarters of his. There’s work to be done, but for now he sinks into his pleasure, presenting to the eyes he can feel on his body once more.

Elias _is_ watching. 

It would be ludicrous if not, and when it comes to his priorities, he isn’t one to slack. Although, he thinks, eyes glazing over at the budget spreadsheets in front of him, finances may suffer today. He’s rather distracted by other things.

Peter does this, now and again. Mostly in the days before he returns, patron satisfied. The days in the lead-up before, when the Lonely is the strongest and Peter feels it more keenly. Those are the days he interacts with Elias a bit, and Elias waits, and watches, dutiful, as Peter settles into his quarters and pumps his cock until he spills on his desk or bed or hand. Then Peter will look up, lax and satiated, stare into nothing and everything like he’s trying to _find_ him. Sometimes, Elias lets himself feel found. That isn’t how the Beholding works, he knows, but it’s a whim he entertains from time to time. Peter still smiles, every time, regardless. 

Like he knows he’s watching, and Elias knows he does.

He flicks the button on his trousers, and settles back in his chair. It would be remiss of him to not tend to his priorities, after all.


	16. Jon/Tim - formal wear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Formal wear |** ~~Overstimulation | Sadomasochism~~

“Jon, we’re absolutely going to be late if you don’t  _ hurry up.” _

“Maybe that’s the point.” He stared into the bathroom mirror, fidgeting with the tie he’d been pretending to tie for the past solid five minutes. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind keeping up appearances; he liked to believe he was rather alright in that department. A button-down shirt and tie, sweater vest, decent trousers… apparently one of the  _ perks _ in working archives was that anyone hardly ever  _ saw _ you, leading to the more… lax dress standards of some of his fellow co-workers, but not him. He’d always–

“I heard that,” Tim said through the door, “and you know if we show up  _ late,  _ it’s going to be during the speech, so we’ll  _ really _ stick out.” 

God. He was probably right. “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.” 

“It won’t be that bad, boss!”

“Don’t call me ‘boss’ when we’re not at work,” he hissed, yanking open the door. No amount of staring into the mirror was going to be able to smooth down his hair any further. He  _ was _ just wasting time.  _ “Please _ do not announce to your presumably large circle of publisher friends that you’re dating your boss–” Tim was staring. “What?” he complained, automatically raising his hand to his tie, and then his hair. “Why are you staring?”

This was why he didn’t do formal-formal. Business casual,  _ sure. _ But  _ formal– _

“You’re hot!”

“It’s  _ warm,” _ he retorted. “Your house is like an oven on a normal day, but  _ this _ thing–” he plucked at the suit, not tailored properly anyway, “is sweltering–”

_ “No,  _ you daft git,  _ you’re _ hot,” Tim replied. “Like, sexy as hell in that.”

Jon blinked, dropping his hand away from his lapel. He hadn’t expected that. Although, with Tim, maybe he should have. Even if he hadn’t. “I’m sorry,  _ what?” _

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me,” Tim said, stepping forward to run his hand over Jon’s tie. “You look  _ good. _ I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Tim. You see me almost every day at work.”

“Not like this! They already think you’re mysterious, come in like this and literally  _ half _ the archives would drop their goddamn trousers.”

_ “Stop,” _ Jon interrupted quickly, turning his back to him. Not… not that he wanted to know exactly what the rest of work thought or didn’t think of him– the idea of strangers wanting to proposition him purely for what he was wearing–  _ God, _ he was burning up. His face was getting hot. “It isn’t even tailored.”

“Oh, thanks, imagining  _ that _ now.”

_ “Tim.” _ He ran his hands along his face. Didn’t they have this event to be getting to? Hadn’t Tim just been hurrying  _ him? _ Now they were going to stand here and Jon was going to have the life embarrassed out of him before they even got there.

“It’s not my fault!” Tim said, slipping his arms around his waist. He pulled him back against his chest, and Jon went, halfheartedly begrudging the fact Tim could just…  _ do _ that. Call him… sexy. When they both knew full well  _ Tim  _ was the ‘hot one’ at work. The popular one. Not that Jon wanted to be lavished in attention, God no, but just hearing about Tim’s past escapades in comparison to his own pretty much said all that needed to be said. He had it on good authority Tim was conventionally  _ good-looking _ and charming on top of that. So how Tim could say something like that about Jon… 

… wait. Wait wait wait.

Jon shifted, narrowing his eyes at the wall, before blurting, exasperated, “are you  _ really _ hard right now??”

“I mean. Yeah, a bit,” Tim said, with no remorse  _ whatsoever– _

“Tim!”

“I  _ said _ you were hot.” Tim’s hands slid from his waist, to his hips. “I could fuck you right now, hands down.”

“Do not,” Jon warned, “untuck my shirt, Tim.” He knew Tim’s little  _ threat _ was hypothetical, albeit true, and he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or  _ amused _ by the fact he had a partner with such a voracious sexual appetite.

“But Joooon…”

“We’re going to be late!”

“Oh,  _ now _ you’re all eager to go.” Tim huffed a laugh into his hair, but pulled back. And he was grinning, but, oh, he was definitely a bit flush. Christ, that was… embarrassing and flattering and embarrassing. “You just want me to go see my old mates with a semi, you  _ arse!” _

Jon fixed his tie  _ again, _ raising an eyebrow in the best interpretation of  _ unimpressed _ he could get right now. He didn’t know if he managed to level it considering how flustered he was, but… “Like they haven’t seen you with a semi before this.”

“Wow.  _ Wow! _ I’m offended.”

Jon smiled, ducking around Tim to put on his shoes. “Come on.”

“This had better go down.” And now he was pouting. Of course he was; Jon had to hide his face to stifle his laughter. “I can’t have a boner in these trousers, Jon, they’re too tight.”

“Better not look at me, then,” Jon said, purposefully meeting Tim’s eyes when he stood back up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll just  _ not  _ look at my sexy as fuck boyfriend. Sure.”

“Good.”

Tim sighed, all dramatic like. And sure,  _ Jon  _ wouldn’t be caught dead with an erection but  _ somehow, _ he didn’t think Tim  _ really  _ minded  _ that  _ dramatically. Exemplified by, “kiss, though?”

Pouting and cheeky. What a dynamic he had fallen for. 

Jon ran his fingers along Tim’s tie, contemplative like he had to think about it. But he didn’t, not right now, so he pulled him down to height, and quickly pecked a kiss against his mouth. 

“Oooh, you’re gonna kill me, Jon.” But Tim was smiling, and slung his arm around Jon’s waist again. “Let’s go before I do something stupid. Like ruin these pants.”

Jon chuckled, “crude,” and offered his hand out to Tim. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was literally wrangling the other two to no avail and then _this_ Tim I love you


	17. Jon/Tim - shower sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Double penetration in one hole | Tickling~~ | **Shower sex**
> 
> ****things get a bit dicey but everything is 100% a-okay re the actual sex!

“Close, Jon?” he murmured, nibbling at his ear. Rhetorical question; sure, they didn’t have sex often but Tim knew the tells. The way Jon was breathing over the spray of the shower, shoulders hunched, hands braced against the wall. Tim helping to hold him up, arm around his waist, and how  _ tense _ Jon was around him. It was great. “Gonna come for me?”

“… yes.”

Oh, that hushed response wouldn’t do. “What’s that? Sorry, shower’s kinda loud–”

“Yes!” Jon snapped, ducking his head. “I’m–  _ yes.  _ Yes, Tim,  _ please–” _

_ Oh, _ the break in his voice. Tim grinned against his neck, gripping tighter at his hip. “C’mon, then. Let me feel you,” he murmured, changing the pace of hit thrusts to match with that trembling little note in Jon’s voice. “Gonna feel so good.”

Predictably Jon was spilling not a whole ten seconds later, probably all over the shower  _ wall, _ which was  _ filthy _ and lovely since they’d never fucked in here before. Tim breathed out his praise and then tightened his grip around Jon’s middle, redoubling his efforts to chase his own orgasm. No, chivalry wasn’t dead; if he knew Jon was going to come, he made sure he took care of him first. But  _ after…  _

All well and good, right? Tim left a nice, sizable hickey on Jon’s neck after he came, and Jon was still shaking even after he pulled out. A proper good fucking, and– and Jon was really shaking, actually. “Hey.” He smoothed his hand down his side, rubbing a circle at his hip. “Alright?”

“Yes,” Jon mumbled.

“Just, you’re really trembly there–” He’d barely even begun to say that out loud when Jon made a noise, and it was a  _ sob. _ One he tried to muffle beneath the sound of the shower but it was definitely tears and, “oh, Jon.” He froze with his hand still at Jon’s hip, and tried to lean over to see his face but he was doing a  _ good _ job at keeping away from him. “Jon.”

“I’m fine,” Jon shot back. His voice was still wavering. Shit. That break in his voice might not have been a good thing, but Jon hadn’t  _ said _ anything. “I’m fine, I’m fi–ne–” Which was about the time he started crying in earnest and– and sure, Tim’d had people do that on him before, but this was a little horrifying because Jon just– didn’t. Do anything emotional.

“Jon. Hey, hey.” He rest his hand against his spine. “Jon. The sex?”

_ “No.” _

“Me?”

“No.”

“Jon,” he said, rubbing at his back. “I  _ need _ your face or your colors.” Because he could always find the hesitation or the trust in Jon’s face, really the only time Tim was interested in finding the truth in eyes and all that, but with Jon not looking at him– 

“Green,” Jon replied quickly. “G–green. I was green–”

“You were… ohh, Jon. Come here.” He slipped his hand under his elbow, trying to pull him back against his chest. “Come here.” 

Jon went willing, at least, slumping back against him. Tim took a step back, pulling them both directly back under the stream of the shower. He’d give Jon the benefit of the doubt and let him turn his face to the spray and wash away the tears. He was going to hold him while he cried it out, hope that the water didn’t decide to go cold with this shitty, tempermental shower, and then he was going to try to figure out if Jon  _ had  _ been green until he hadn’t, or he had just said  _ had _ because the sex was already over. Two very real opportunities, with the way Jon thought about things.

It took awhile– or it felt that way to Tim, but yeah, probably felt that way to Jon too– but Jon eventually got quiet. Just the sound of the water, and Jon’s stuffy breathing, and the feeling of tension in his shoulders as Tim continued to loosely hold him.

“… sorry,” Jon murmured, eventually.

“No, you’re… you’re fine.” Tim squeezed him a bit, and then, hesitantly, “am I the one who needs to apologize here?”

“No.” Jon breathed out sharply. “No. I was– I– I–” He groaned, raising his hands to grip at Tim’s arms. “The sex was good. I  _ swear, _ Tim. I didn’t need to tap out. I, uhh– um, that happens, um– sometimes.”

“The… crying?”

“Yes.  _ God.” _ He buried his face in his hands. “When– when I’m– I don’t know,  _ stressed, _ in general, or– or just… it’s happened. Before. By myself, um. Christ,” he hissed, “this is embarrassing.”

“No. Just– alright, look at me?”

“I  _ just _ said it’s humiliating–”

“No, talking is  _ good. _ Crying is good, too. I just wanna see your face.” He nudged his shoulder. “Please?”

Jon sighed, swiveling around. “Happy?”

He caught his chin, tilting it up. And  _ yeah, _ Jon looked embarrassed but not… traumatized. Or upset in the way Tim had to talk him out of sometimes when he stopped things. So that was good. Teary-eyed, red-faced. But not  _ hurt. _ “A bit,” Tim allowed, pecking a kiss to his forehead. “So I’m probably supposed to tell you you shouldn’t bottle up stuff like that, but,  _ yeah,  _ I get it. And sex is a good outlet. So if you need to cry–” Jon squirmed, ducking his head. Tim amended, smoothing back the hair plastered to his forehead. “Or scream, or laugh, or  _ whatever, _ that’s definitely cool. Alright? Just don’t try to hide that from me. Because, well, it  _ worried _ me, but two, we’re meant to share stuff. Especially if we're fucking. But definitely still even if we're not. Okay?”

“I… yeah,” Jon murmured. He leaned in to press his forehead against Tim’s chest, and Tim started rubbing at his back again. 

“You wanna bitch about work, by all means, bitch about work.”

“I’m not really  _ one  _ to bitch about work,” Jon grumbled, sliding his arms around his waist. “Although, all things considered, I probably should be.”

“You  _ definitely _ should be.” But Tim couldn’t  _ make _ him, he knew that. All he could really do was let Jon know he was there for the bitching  _ or _ catch him when he fell apart. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but… they’d never been  _ normal, _ not in any aspect.

Jon didn’t say much else, so Tim just let him lean against him until the water did start to run cold. Then he turned the shower off and helped Jon out, manhandling him into a big, fluffy towel to start drying him off. Which ran the effect of Jon half glaring between the folds of the towel, trying to reach up and do it himself. Tim swatted his hand away.

“Tim. You don’t have to–”

“Oh, but I  _ want _ to!” Tim said cheerfully, methodically continuing.

“Just because I was– upset–”

“Jon, I  _ always _ want to pamper you.” He didn’t even need to  _ think _ about that one. He draped the towel around his shoulders. “Stay here, I’ll get you some jammies.”

“Tim–”

He pressed his finger against his mouth. “Nope! Jammies.”

Jon managed to look about as thrilled as a wet cat, and huffed in about the same manner. But he  _ let _ Tim, grumbling “fine” under his breath as he held onto the towel himself.

_ “Great!” _ Tim kissed his hair again. “Be right back.”

“Wait, you–  _ Tim. _ Don’t parade about naked–”

Tim just laughed, going to collect Jon the baggiest, most comfortable pajamas he owned to borrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon, who's so used to only, rarely, breaking down when he's alone, feeling comfortable enough that he occasionally starts doing it around Tim 🥺 granted it's still humiliating as hell but ain't no way Tim lets him linger on that for long!!


	18. Peter/Martin - masturbation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Sweat | Branding~~ **| Masturbation**
> 
> ****written kind of part as a pre-established au but all you really need to know is that Peter and Martin are Happily established and Peter hits very aroace

Peter not having a particular proclivity towards sexual activities of any kind was absolutely fine; Martin had told him that once or twice when their disparities in, er, preferences had come up. And Martin didn’t mind not having sex, really. He wouldn’t mind having it again, but– not at Peter’s expense. If he ever wanted to, then… then Martin was there. And if not, that was fine. He spent most of his time _between_ partners instead of actually _with_ them, so he knew a bit about handling a libido on his own.

Which was all well and good, assuming he had _time_ to wank. Which he hadn’t. This week. Which was normally fine! It was just a week! And they’d been busy, so he’d been falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow on the nights Peter wasn’t there, or got back late. Not to mention being too tired to take advantage of his limited private time– aka, his shower– and now he just… he needed to get off, okay? So he threw caution to the wind and assumed Peter was sleeping now, shoved his hand down his trousers and started to feel himself up a bit, when–

“Not asleep, Martin.”

_That_ was almost as humiliating as it got. Not quite. Probably preferable to– to the _other_ option of finding out Peter was awake, finding out _after,_ like he had, that one time, but– He swore under his breath, yanking his hand back, tugging at the blankets in embarrassment like he didn’t occasionally fantasize about fucking the man laying next to him. Like Peter hadn’t figured that out. “Peter!” he complained, squeaked, more like, which was just _lovely._

“Sorry,” Peter apologized, and he really did sound contrite. It took the edge off, a little bit. Just not the one Martin needed. “You mentioned, before, if I was awake…” he trailed off, and Martin cringed a bit still _remembering_ that other time when Peter had apparently laid silent the whole time he’d done himself and then only politely coughed _after_ Martin had made a mess of his pants.

“Right.” Fair. Less humiliating than that. “Jesus, okay. Sorry,” he apologized, too, wound up and anxious. But the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. “I’m, uh, gonna…” He gestured vaguely in the general direction of the bathroom. “I’ll be back. In a few.” Because, for better or worse, this would not take him long.

“You could do it here.”

Martin stopped, barely having nudged one foot out of the sheets. That… those words. They gave him the _oddest_ kind of sensation, a rush of cold followed by a wave of heat, and the prickle of sweat in the small of his back. That was the first time Peter had… suggested anything. “I…” He blew his breath out in a rush. “I, er, I don’t have to? I mean, not that I would _mind?_ It’s just… I don’t want to, you know. Put you in a sexual situation.”

Peter tilted his head on the pillow. It was too dark to make out much past the unnatural silver-white glint in his eyes, the familiar pass of The Lonely reaching through there. “I don’t think I’d mind,” he continued. “Besides, it’s _yours,_ not mine.”

“I…” Christ, why was he arguing? This was a _step._ And if Peter got uncomfortable watching, he’d know. “Um. Yeah. Yes. I’d like that.” He kicked free of the blankets, shoving his pillow a little further up the bed. “I didn’t think you’d like… um, _watching._ All things considered.”

“It’s you,” Peter said. “I’ve found I don’t mind a few things, if it’s with you.”

“Oh.” God, he was going to make him all _mushy._ That was sweet. And flattering. And made him want to lean over and kiss him, but he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by springing _that_ on him, either, when kissing was still iffy sometimes, and oh God, he was spiraling himself out of control. “Um. Thanks,” he said, genuinely. “I’m glad.” He slid his hand back down to the waistband of his sweats, and then stopped. “Er, should I turn on a light?” He glanced at the lamp, then back at Peter.

“Do you want to?”

All of his silly romantic thoughts of having Peter, taking him to bed with the lights dimmed low, feeling out each other’s bodies, more out of his own self-consciousness than strictly the romance came rushing in. “… not really,” he admitted.

“Then we’re fine like this!” Peter said, all cheerful-like again.

Martin would take it at face value that he could see _enough._ He could see what he wanted to, anyway. With their eyes adjusting to the dark, and Peter’s inhumanity. Martin nodded once, and only hesitated a second longer before shoving his pants down a bit.

He was already half hard– had been, for a bit, entertaining his own fantasies and the fact he’d been a bit… horny for days now. He took a breath as he wrapped his fingers snug around his cock, trying not to– to whine, or _moan,_ or something stupid, _God–_ and slowly started to stroke. It was a bit of a rough go, dry, but the lube was in the drawer on _Peter’s_ side and he couldn’t fathom asking him to grab it, just now, so after a moment of spreading the slick just sort of… raised his hand to his mouth to spit in his palm. Not at _all_ sexy, and his face burned hot (Peter was _watching!)_ , but it was going to get the job done. Needs must and all, right??

_Peter is watching. Peter is watching._

He’d thought about it, back at work, before. Jerking in the office, wondering if Peter had been watching from afar. He never really thought he had, but he’d gotten off to it a time or two (or three or four–) Maybe Peter had never had much managed the concept of boundaries, but he had always valued privacy, so…

Martin worked himself a little faster, chancing a glance to the side. And yes. Peter was watching. Unmoving, interested.

He must have caught Martin looking. “Yes, I’m awake.”

Martin blew out a horrible laugh, all nerves and anxiety and arching into his own hand. “I didn’t– I mean, that’s _good,_ cheers.”

“Mhm. I think I like watching.”

Oh. That… those words, too, burnt all the way to his core. Like jumpstarting a car or something, and he snapped his hips forward frantically. It was definitely a moan he muffled behind closed lips, but– but he just couldn’t keep _quiet–_ it was a fault, and even though they weren’t doing anything _doing anything,_ it was like their first time and he _was_ nervous. So he made a joke. A terrible, _terrible_ joke. “C–Ceaseless Watcher–”

Now it was Peter’s turn to laugh, sounding startled and amused at once. _“God,_ no. I– I… I _definitely_ cease. Multiple times a day, actually. I couldn't imagine _not_ ceasing. It must get so tiresome.”

This was the _worst_ sexy talk ever. It was! But Peter was laughing and Martin couldn’t help but laugh, too in between trying to catch his breath in the first place, and– and you know what? Peter was _right._ Being _ceaseless,_ that sounded like it _sucked._ Being _on,_ being aware, all the time, having to take in everything. And Jon, poor Jon– ah, no, nevermind– Martin couldn’t imagine it anymore. He couldn’t… didn’t… go into The Lonely like Peter did; he went rarely at will and never for leisure, no matter _how_ much he wanted to get away sometimes. But he’d _felt_ The Lonely, been there, had it touch him and seep into his skin. The nothingness, the emptiness. Mostly silent and gentle and encompassing, The Lonely– 

He felt orgasm hit like a wave from the sea, and he thought he could taste salt on his tongue. For a moment, he couldn’t recognize everything or nothing, and it was only himself. And Peter.

And Peter…

Martin sagged back into the mattress. His hand was sticky. _And_ there was already spunk on his shirt so… he just kinda wiped his hand on it, too. Gross. Amazing. But, God, that had been _quick._

“Oh,” Peter said, sounding _way_ too pleased, considering _how quick it had been._

Martin breathed out a curse. “Fuck.”

“Oh, not good?”

“Not–” He swallowed, and realized the taste of salt was a speck of blood. He must have bitten his cheek. “Not indicative of my usual performance,” he joked. It didn’t really matter. It _had_ been fantastic, actually.

“No?”

“I’m usually not so, erm… needy.” _Well,_ that’s _a lie, Martin,_ something whispered in his head. He would have given it a nasty glare if it were real. “I just mean… quick. I’m not usually so quick.”

“Oh. Well,” Peter said, and then handed him a tissue from the nightstand. Better late than never. “I didn’t mind!”

“I…” Martin laughed once, in disbelief and wonder and… and he needed to clean up. Yeah. He started trying to wipe his shirt. “I mean, good. I’m– I’m glad. If you liked it.” He couldn’t stop himself from asking, _“did_ you like it?”

“I did!” Peter says. “Truly, it was fascinating.”

_“Fascinating?”_

“You know what I mean.”

Ridiculous, _ridiculous_ man. Martin was… so ridiculously smitten. “Yeah.” Really, he ought to wash up properly, take off his shirt and stuff, but… he was tired, now. Fulfilled and cozy. So he just yanked his trousers up and rolled over to face Peter, who did the same in turn. “Um. Thanks. Peter.”

“I didn’t really do anything.”

“You– I just mean… thanks for… letting me. And for taking the risk for trying something new? I’m… I don’t really know how to say it.”

“Words,” Peter said, dismissing the _idea_ of such a thing with a wave of his hand. “But thank you as well. For letting me watch.”

It had to be the most _awkward_ sexual encounter, like, _ever._ But it was… nice. Somehow, it was just really nice with the two of them here, like this.

Peter pulled one of the blankets back up and Martin settled back in, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is it so long, because of my girlfriend 😜 I do love me an awkward couple in love and a gently defanged Lukas though!!


	19. Jon/Martin/Elias - bondage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bondage |** ~~Gunplay | Inflation~~
> 
> tw: they're all there completely consensually but theres a lot of negative emotion that presents from Martin occasionally. and unsafe bdsm practices

“Stop squirming.”

“Apologies. It isn’t exactly  _ comfortable.” _

“It isn’t supposed to tickle,” Martin said, but then, raising his voice, “are you using your words?”

A pause. 

Elias tilted his head, like puzzling a particularly difficult question beneath that blindfold, the thick satin swath of fabric wrapped twice around his eyes. And then, softly, “no.”

That was what he’d thought. “Then stop squirming,” he retorted, and tried to go back to his book. It was near impossible now, though; Elias  _ didn’t _ precisely stop moving. Just subtle things, clenching and unclenching his hands where they were tied behind his back. Flexing his thighs. Arching his back as much as he could. So he was uncomfortable.  _ Good. _

But it was distracting. In more ways than one; sitting on the sofa next to Martin, watching, just watching, Jon was starting to get flighty, too. Shifting every time Elias did, ramping up to a nervous anxiety that Martin desperately did  _ not _ want to feel right now. He just wanted to enjoy this. He was enjoying this. Elias was, too, actually; he hadn’t said as much but Martin had instructed Jon to take the knowledge from him, if he could, and Jon had  _ said _ he felt Elias being… pleased. Thrilled. Gently amused, too, which had made Martin all the more stubborn about the thing.

He had taken a  _ long _ time tying him up. Wrists behind his back. Arms pinned to his sides. Rope criss-crossing his chest again and again. Over and under his thighs. Around his ankles. Oh, Martin had  _ definitely _ taken his time. He’d explained his way through shibari to Jon the whole while– Elias, of course, Knew the process, and Jon didn’t like to take information unless it was part of the scene. And talking had helped, a bit, soothing Martin down, too. Not that he’d been nervous, he was just… the way he was, with Elias.

Elias could take it. Elias had promised he could take it.

Even still, when he next puffed out a breath, Jon broke, opening his mouth to speak. “Should we–”

“He’s fine,” Martin interrupted.

“Quite easy for you to say,” Elias added.

“I swear to  _ God, _ I will get the gag again.” Something in him snapped when Elias talked like that. Not quite sass, but… but close enough. It just made Martin so  _ angry. _ He wasn’t a bad dom, he  _ wasn’t. _ He wouldn’t  _ hurt _ him, not… not more than he wanted him to, but just–  _ something _ in him burned white hot. “If you’re not safewording, shut up.”

Elias made a noise; in turn– simultaneously– so did Jon, a breathless sort of sound Jon rarely ever made, but there was the Beholding connection at play. The strange, weird, annoying connection that made Martin throb with jealousy and intrigue alike. Jealous because, well. He wasn’t a part of  _ Beholding. _ But intrigue because… because the thrum of energy between them, the wide-eyed wonder on Jon’s– or occasionally, even better,  _ Elias’s– _ face when the bond bounced between them, surprise and arousal and devotion. And it was hot, he had to admit. Especially when it got noises like that from Jon’s mouth, turned his skin that beautiful shade of embarrassed pink.

“He, u–um,” Jon stammered, fidgeting again, “he  _ likes _ that. You, uh, saying that.”

“Telling him to shut up?”

“Mm… mhm.”

“Oh.” He looked back at Elias. “It feels nice to.”

“Yeah,” Jon agreed breathlessly, looking almost as riled up as Martin felt. As Elias felt, evidently.

(It was a success. This was a success.)

Whatever Elias may have liked, he didn’t make another sound. Even if Martin was just a little disappointed. He liked the ball gag.  _ Elias _ liked the ball gag. (And he and Elias together had proven that  _ they _ liked it on  _ Jon, _ very much so, but that was few and far in between and they usually just settled on a cleave if they had to muffle up Jon’s voice.) But then… it  _ was _ Elias. A disappointment.

Elias chuckled, and Martin rolled his eyes. Of course he was  _ looking _ now.

At his side, Jon leaned forward– and then inhaled sharply, through his nose, stilling from his nervous squirming. That far away look in his eyes–

_ “Elias,” _ Martin warned sharply.

“He pushed.”

“I wanted to know,” Jon admitted at the same time, but he was a little breathless now, the flush faded from his face again. “I– I– he’s so… content, but– ah, I don’t– I don’t like  _ that.” _ He dragged his hand down his chest. “Christ.” He started rubbing at a wrist.

Okay, they’d talk about  _ that _ later. Yes, it was well within Jon’s rights to test things but  _ Jesus… _ Martin watched as he shook out his fingers, and frowned. “Is he really in pain?”

“No.” Jon flexed his fingers. “Um. Just– tingles? Pins and needles.”

Martin looked back at Elias. “Pins and needles,” he repeated, and got off the couch. “Elias,” he started.

“I’m not  _ immune _ to circulation, Martin,” Elias said, head twitching towards him. “But  _ no, _ nerve damage does not apply. Not to me.”

Elias could take it. Martin knew. But now it was in his head. He wiggled a finger beneath Elias’s ropes. Tight, tighter than– than he would have, normally, on a  _ normal _ person, but… well, he’d been like this for a while. He made the decision, “we’re done.”

“Martin, Jon’s delicate sensitivities hardly–” Elias began, but Martin cut him off.

_ “Jon’s _ the only one who actually tells me when things need to be ended. I know you’re not… not like  _ everyone else, _ but I’m not having a guilty conscience for you. I’m untying you.”

“... very well.”

Martin knelt down next to him, working deftly at the ropes. If he thought Elias was in real danger, he had the shears but… for now, he decided, it was fine. Careful but determined, working at the knots first at his wrists. Then helping him to shift his hands, squeezing sensation back into the tips of his fingers. “Okay?”

“Just fine,” Elias said easily. Briefly clutching back at Martin’s fingers, before Martin moved on to untie his arms. “You needn’t worry, you know.”

_ “Someone _ has to,” Martin muttered. “Careful moving. I know it’s going to hurt, don’t tell me otherwise.”

“Hm.”

“Jon–”

“Stay out of his head,” Jon said, “I know. Trust me, I’m– I’m not interested in  _ more _ pain. Especially not like this.”

“Thank you,” Martin murmured. “Could you–” He tugged at a particularly stubborn knot, apologizing when Elias huffed under his breath. “Sorry. Get that stuff off the couch?”

“Sure.” 

Jon collected his laptop and Martin’s book, the mug of tea balanced on the arm of the sofa. Fidgeting with the cushions as Martin worked the final bonds away from Elias’s legs. 

“Right. Take it–”

“Slowly,” Elias said. “I know.” He managed to sound condescending even as he half stumbled back to his feet and nearly fell over. Which was  _ predictable– _ stupid and annoying and predictable, and Martin had to catch him against his chest to half carry to the sofa.

“If you know, why don’t you ever  _ listen?” _ he snapped. He should have let him fall onto the couch and… didn’t. He eased him down onto it instead, helping him settle into the cushions. “Jesus.”

“Because he’s too stubborn,” Jon said, crawling onto the sofa next to him. He tucked his legs beneath him and settled in himself.

“Yes, well.” Elias did that thing, too, where he gravitated towards Jon. Beholding again. Then he sighed– quiet, pleased– as he pressed a shoulder to Jon’s, rubbing at his wrists. “Old habits.”

“Very old habits.”

Elias quirked a smile. “Quite.”

Martin rolled his eyes, wringing his hands a little. “Do you– do you need anything? Ice or anything? You don’t have marks, but–”

“I’m  _ fine, _ Martin. Just the two of you.”

“R… right,” he mumbled, smoothing his hands down his thighs and then just… yeah, settling onto the sofa on Elias’s other side. Trust that he never shirked his duty for aftercare. “I can make you some tea and snacks in a bit?”

“That’d be lovely. Thank you.”

“Yeah… um. You, too.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “To all of that.”

“To all of that,” Elias echoed, slumping down a bit on the sofa. He was still rubbing his wrists, so Martin hesitated a second longer before holding out his hand.

“Here. Give me… I’ll do it. I’ll– yeah.”

Elias smiled, and let Martin– and Jon– take either of his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> practice safe kink yall, ESPECIALLY with rope bondage (elias is an exception, ofc 💁)
> 
> I've written this trio on my main before so I'll say here what I say there! Martin and Elias having common ground because they both unconditionally and wholly love Jonathan Sims!!


	20. Jon/Martin - crossdressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Crossdressing |** ~~Lingerie | Distention~~

Jon looks cozy in a skirt.

Martin had told him that, actually, because… because Jon deserved to be told that. He’d been so _nervous,_ at first, for awhile. And Martin gets it! He does! He has his own stash of things he’d… he’d like to be able to wear, some day. Around Jon. But most of them still remain secret, anxiety and fearing repercussions– which he knows is hypocritical, he _knows–_ anyway. If he _was_ wearing those things, he’d… really like to be told he looks nice in them, so he makes sure to tell Jon. Because Jon does look nice in a skirt. All relaxed and comfortable at this point. It’s good to see.

Today it’s a A-line midi, in this dusky kind of blue that Martin _lov_ _es._ It reminds him of a cloudless sky, of ice crystals from morning frost. Of– of _fog,_ of The Lonely, which he supposes isn’t something he should admit out loud, but old associations died hard and he liked what he liked. And, that aside– and here had been part of Jon’s excitement for this one in particular– it has functional pockets.

And it’s _soft._ God, it’s soft. Sure, Jon had been sold on it prior to the package arriving at his place, but you couldn’t _touch_ things through the internet. So then when it _had_ arrived, Martin had had the absolute, giddy pleasure of watching Jon’s face _light up_ when he had pulled it out of the bag. (And then the inevitable shutdown, the excitement turned to carefully composed emotion, but they were working on that.) He had immediately urged him to try it on, without even looking double at the thing, because Jon had looked so _happy–_ and more his own surprise when he had reached to smooth out a wrinkle in the fabric and found out how nice it was to touch.

So, yeah, Jon wears this one a bit more often than the others. And Martin adores it. A bit more than he probably should, actually.

Jon always gravitates towards sensory-friendly things, the slide of satin or plush polyester. Which is fine, it’s good, an easy stim of stroking along the fabric of his clothes when he gets either stressed or focused. But then, Martin fidgets _almost_ as much as Jon. Again, not a bad thing! Although his tends to come from anxiety, which makes it a not-good thing? But point _being,_ Jon buys cozy, cute clothes, and Martin can barely keep his hands to himself. 

He doesn’t notice he’s stroking up and down the length of Jon’s skirt-clad thigh until Jon clears his throat, bringing his attention to it.

“Oh.” Martin feels himself get all flustered, but he also… doesn’t pull his hand back. He just leaves it there, now unmoving against the warmth of Jon’s thigh. “Sorry, uh. But it does feel nice! Reflex, I guess? Do you mind?” He asks because there’s a look on Jon’s face. Not a bad one! It almost looks like a smile.

“No.”

“Lovely,” he chirps, because he’s always pleased when Jon’s pleased, _and_ he gets to go back to stroking Jon’s thigh. So that’s definitely nice. So he does, and goes back to browsing his phone. 

But only for a minute. Because Jon continues.

“That might have been the point.”

Martin falters in surprise of what he _thinks_ Jon is saying, but only for that moment. “Oh?” he prompts.

“I may not be wearing anything beneath this,” Jon admits, and that’s _definitely_ Jon’s way of propositioning him.

For a second, all Martin can do is stare at his crotch like a horny sixteen year old. Then he looks back at his face, and says, again, “oh…?”

“And there’s plenty of room beneath.” He gestures to the hem of the skirt, and it’s all Martin can do _not_ to drop to his knees right then and there, but–

“God,” he blurts, and then, pulling his hand back entirely, “okay. I’m really, _really_ for this, absolutely, but, uh, I know this has never been a, um, _sexual_ thing for you–”

“It’s not,” Jon agrees quickly. “Ever. But I realized I wanted to seduce you today and this is one of the things I feel, um. _Sexy_ in? And I know you like it.”

“I do like it. And you do look sexy,” Martin says, “but, Jon, you could seduce me wearing nothing but socks with sandals, sooo–”

Jon laughs, a noise he stifles behind closed lips and a barely restrained look of amused disgust. “Let’s never have _that_ mental picture again then, thanks, Martin.”

He sticks his tongue out. “I just don’t want this to be something it’s not, for you.”

“It’s not. I promise.”

“Okay.” He trusts him. Always has, always will. On so very many things. _And_ now he’s thinking of how this fabric is going to feel against his face, amongst other things, _so–_ “Here and now?”

“Yes, please.”

_Yes, please._

When Jon shyly parts his thighs, Martin doesn’t need telling twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beautiful man seduces his boyfriend with flowy skirts and shy how-the-hell-do-i-flirt flirting
> 
> [skirt in question here ](https://www.chicwish.com/classic-simplicity-a-line-midi-skirt-in-blue.html)
> 
> im big doki over this skirt tho?? heart says YES wallet says no so im trying to live vicariously  
>    
> 


	21. Jon/Elias - praise kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Praise kink |** ~~Glory hole | Telepathetic bonds~~

_ Very well done, Jon. _

Jon pretends that doesn’t get under his skin. The way Elias says it. The words. He pretends he doesn’t crave validation, and that the sentiment doesn’t follow him into the night sometimes. Because it does. And he rarely gets off to it, sure, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t  _ think _ about the tone and lilt of Elias’s voice and how it feels so goddamn  _ nice _ to be told he’s good, for once. To be told he’s good, when none of them have been for so long.

_ Very well done. Jon. _

Warm from head to toe, and Jon sinks into the hope of hearing it again.

“… Jon.”

Reality fades back in to the ticking of the clock, and Elias looking at him expectantly. Jon pulls himself upright, feeling exhausted, like he’s been running himself in circles. He has been, a bit, both in cases and personal thoughts. He’s grateful Elias had offered to stay late and help out, really; the kinship between them these days is indescribably grounding. Beholding to Beholding and Jon needs that stability as much as he wants it these days. But he wonders if he should have gone home, instead, and put work behind him for a few hours. At the very least, being this close to Elias isn’t helping him to  _ forget _ the words stuck in his head. 

He rubs at his eyes, glasses discarded ages ago. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I wasn’t.” Elias looks amused, and then… something, the same something he always adopts around Jon. It’s a comfortable something, something Jon enjoys even if he can’t quite place it. “Yet.”

“Oh.”

“But on the topic…”

Jon drops his hands, looking back up.

“You know if there’s anything you want, all you have to do is ask,” Elias continues.

For a second, all Jon does is stare. And then the recognition hits: he’s been daydreaming about Elias’s warm words. “You–” He’s flustered and annoyed now in turns, and gathers his paperwork into a neater pile for something to do. “I thought you  _ didn’t _ take that Knowledge from me.”

They’ve had an agreement, of sorts; Elias didn’t Watch when he asked him not to, and he didn’t take Knowledge that Jon considered… personal, in that nature. Both things that required express permission, apparently, to maintain their relationship outside of the purely professional one, and– and Jon’s  _ okay _ with that. Pleased. He didn’t want Elias staring while he was in the shower, and he didn’t want him to know what he thought about in there, either. But now…

“You’re tired,” Elias replies, “and being  _ very…  _ expressive. Even if unintentionally.”

… his fault for thinking about it a few feet away from him, he supposes. And Elias is right: he is tired. Even the embarrassment is dulled. “Sorry,” he says, although he isn’t entirely sure which part he’s apologizing for.

“No need for that.” Elias puts down his pen, and Jon thinks any more work would be futile, tonight. “Just a reminder. If it’s something you want from me, it does help if I’m made aware. And praising you isn’t something that requires much work on my behalf, as it were.”

Oh, nevermind about the embarrassment. Jon feels his face flame up warm. “I don’t… need–”

“No,” Elias agrees. “You don’t. But you deserve it, Jon. To be told when you’ve done a good job.”

Jon closes his eyes, and pretending those words don’t affect him doesn’t work. But it’s nice to pretend it’s true. It’s nice to believe he deserves it.

“You do,” Elias says, and Jon slumps a little under the weight of the affirmation. Warm and comforting. He wants to tell Elias to get out of his head, but this is so much easier than trying to express his wants and desires vocally. He wants Elias to say it again.

“You never fail to impress me, Jon.” Elias is suddenly  _ there, _ in his space, coaxing him up, away from their statements and research, back into his sweater and coat. “Do you know why?”

He does. It doesn’t really change anything. “Because I’m your Archivist.”

“Yes,” Elias says, sounding a little offhand. “But more than that.”

God, he really does need to go home. He ends up stifling a yawn half against Elias’s shoulder, even as he hangs onto his words. “I don’t know.”

“Because you’re Jonathan Sims,” Elias says simply. Like it’s that simple.

It isn’t, Jon knows,  _ Elias  _ knows. But it’s nice to hear, too.

_ Very well done, Jon. _

Elias drops a kiss against his hair. “Just so.” 

Jon sinks into the praise, willing, and leans back against his chest to relax in the moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it's telepathic bonds too but that's just the ~usual huh xD
> 
> anyway doting eldritch monster takes care of his tired eldritch archivist!! they are in love!! Elias is gonna take him home and tuck him into bed and curl in next to him 🥺


	22. Jon/Tim - aftercare (free day)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 31\. Free day! **(Aftercare)**

“Here, Jon.”

The piece of chocolate is presented to his lips and, as silly as it feels to allow Tim to  _ feed _ him, Jon does. He opens his mouth and lets Tim urge the sweet between his lips, relishes in the smooth creaminess melting against his tongue. Then he breathes out as it melts away, and lets Tim coax him up a little more to take a drink of water. It chases away the sweetness before it can become too cloying, right now, and Jon yawns against Tim’s shoulder as he settles against him again.

“How’re you doing there?”

He considers. He’s not doing poorly, for certain. It’s rare that he lets Tim take him so far out of his head, relinquishing into a long scene and completely surrendering to letting Tim take care of him. And Tim does, for certain, and it leaves Jon heavy and lazy and slow. Time seems to move at a different clip, even as Tim rubs at the aching parts of his body and presents him with pieces of chocolate and plenty of water. It isn’t a bad feeling. It’s just… a lot. In the best possible way. “Fine,” he manages, and his tongue feels so heavy he has to reach for the glass of water again.

Tim lets him laze against his shoulder until he’s a little more aware, until his senses start pulling at every direction again. He drinks all of the water and Tim pops the chocolate Jon doesn’t want. He inspects the bruises halfheartedly, shifts to assess a level of pain. He stays quiet until he starts feeling more back to himself, until, for better or worse, he starts to feel less like a thing and more like Jonathan Sims again.

He breathes out in a way he hasn’t in awhile, a signal, and Tim squeezes his shoulders. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.” Jon says this definitively, and much more quickly. There’s no contest of how he feels now to how he felt prior, and Tim  _ always _ makes him feel better than good. It’s terrifying, in a way, how quickly and easily Jon lets himself succumb during these moments, but it always–  _ always– _ leaves him feeling more grounded than he has in… years. It’s nice. “A lot better,” he admits.

“Good!” Tim kisses his hair and gently pulls away. “I’ll make some tea. And run you a bath. You stay put.”

His instincts want to tell Tim it isn’t necessary. But he’s still feeling mildly groggy, and the bath sounds like heaven after the aches and pains and sweat. And they both know it isn’t strictly necessary, but that isn’t the point, or even the concern. “I’ll be here,” Jon replies, and wiggles into the pillows to wait.

Tim comes back while the water’s still running, a warm mug of black tea in tow. Jon wraps his hands around it and warms his fingers even though they’re not cold. It’s not overly sweet, with just a little bit of milk, and does well to wash down the lingering taste of the chocolate from moments prior.

When the bath is ready, Jon gulps another few mouthfuls of the tea and then sets it aside. He makes it into the bathroom on his own, although he knows Tim’s watching like a hawk, waiting for his moment to swoop in if he needs to. And he does, at least, to help Jon into the tub, which is probably just as well; Jon’s still feeling off-steady enough he probably doesn’t need to risk cracking his head on the bathtub.

And then… then Tim kneels by the side of the tub and rolls his sleeves up. (Jon vaguely wonders when he’d gotten dressed. How he’d managed to find  _ time, _ in between all of this… doting.) When he reaches for the body wash, Jon just… lets him. It’s soothing, Tim’s encompassing hands on his body again. Gentle in the same way as before, but different, soothing instead of inciting. Still grounding. Methodical in its way, now, but that’s good for Jon. Anything that bordered on vaguely sexual after the night they’ve had would probably bowl him over. Tim’s good at sexual, but Tim’s also…  _ really _ good at… bare bones caretaking, Jon guesses. He’s not sure there’s a proper word, but he huffs a breath of relief as Tim briefly kneads into the tension at his back, and arches up into the heat of Tim’s hands and the water and the promise of even more relaxation. He hears Tim laugh, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nice.

Eventually, he moves on, and Jon lets him finish washing him down. He takes extra care against the bruises that Jon can already feel are blossoming on his skin, and eventually swaps out the body wash for the shampoo and washes Jon’s hair. Slow and careful, and Jon lets out a noise he shouldn’t– rightfully, after all the sounds  _ he’s _ made tonight– be embarrassed over but is. It’s… different. Less heated. Pleasure that doesn’t equate to desire but yet he manages to make a noise so similar to the ones in bed. But, well… he’s not too embarrassed. He can’t be.

Tim scratches at his scalp, and tells Jon to close his eyes so he can rinse away the suds.

He doesn’t let him linger much longer in the tub, which is probably good, because Jon would probably stay there until it got cold. He helps Jon out, wraps him in an obscenely large towel and physically dries him off, which is a little much, but all Jon really manages is a grumpy murmur. He doesn’t know when Tim had gathered pajamas for  _ him, _ either, but he’s then being manhandled into pants and one of Tim’s old sweatshirts, and it’s lovely. Tim’s shirt drapes off of him, and then Tim just hauls him up into his arms and carries him back to the bedroom.

Jon really should have seen that coming. “Tim,” he protests. He’s lax and cozy right now, and does feel up to leveling a complaint. Halfhearted though it may be. Tim’s chest is warm and broad and  _ ridiculously _ easy to cuddle into. “I  _ can _ walk,” he complains, even as he rests his head against his shoulder.

Tim grins. “Dunno ‘bout that.”

“Contrary to belief–” Jon shifts a bit. “You did  _ not _ fuck that ability out of me.”

“Maybe tomorrow, then,” Tim says, in good spirits as he tucks Jon into bed. They both know they won’t be doing  _ this _ kind of thing for a good, long while, let alone  _ tomorrow. _ But Jon can take the bait.

“Maybe,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice as flat as possible but it’s just…  _ difficult  _ to, when he’s so  _ relaxed. _ “Next time.”

“Hell yeah.” Tim pauses before he can climb into bed, too, settling his hand in Jon’s hair with a gentle, “need anything?”

“No.” 

So Tim crawls into bed next to him, urging Jon to tuck himself up right close. Giving him the opportunity to turn away if he wants, but Jon doesn’t want to. He wants to press up close to Tim’s body, tuck his head beneath his chin, and fall asleep to that warmth around him. So he will.

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What better way to end on some soft stuff with my otp 🥺 
> 
> anyway, thank you all for the support on this one! I expected... nowhere near this when I started out, insecure to participate since I don't write ~porny porn XD you all are lovely!!


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